


Sweetness

by WaywardLass



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, Mystery, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-09-18 01:51:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9360287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardLass/pseuds/WaywardLass
Summary: When Geralt and Yennefer decide to overnight at the local inn, they can't imagine that a surprisingly well-baked dessert is the first clue to unveiling a mysterious rivalry, missing villagers, and a Trail of Treats...(Story occurs after the events in both W3 and the expansions, but --incredibly!--contains no spoilers. Although I do mention a location from "Blood and Wine," it's hardly a game-breaker and is more of a cool feature than a plot point.)Bon appetit!





	1. A Quaint and Unremarkable Village

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fen_Assan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/gifts).



> This is for you, Fen! Thanks for being so kind, generous, supportive...and sweet!

"In ancient Greece, the word for "cook," "butcher," and "priest" was the same - _mageiros_ \- and the word shares an etymological root with "magic."  
― Michael Pollan, _Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation_

* * *

 

The note on the village's notice board had been written in flowery handwriting, making it stand out among the other notices.

_Won't you travel down the Trail of Treats? No gluttons, fools, or cheats._

Geralt quickly perused the other notices: a Gwent tournament that had already passed, an herbalist's apprentice advertising gout cures, and some poor sod offering lessons in Nilfgaardian grammar—that particular note had been vandalized with an assortment of vulgar insults and some crude depictions of the male anatomy. The rest of the notices seemed to assert how wonderfully talented a certain Magdala was.

 _Wonderfully talented at what?_ Geralt wondered, immediately considering more lurid skills.

His eyes kept returning to the message with the florid handwriting, though. The corner glistened with something sticky and bright red. He peered around, drew closer and sniffed: it smelled minty and sweet.

"Geralt?" Yennefer asked with mild concern as he drew away from the fragrant missive.

"I find this note very intriguing," he admitted, tapping the paper with his gloved hand.

"The only intriguing thing is how does one stay abreast of important news? This board is a mess," Yen decided, sweeping her raven hair over her shoulders. She glanced at the note he was pointing out. "What could have caught your attention?"

"Gluttons, yes. Fools, a given. But cheats?"

"Cheats…Well, it's a foolish gluttony of a different kind, I suppose." She shrugged and crossed her arms.

"The note has traces of sugar on it."

"That's one thing I don't envy you Witchers for: your ability to perceive such irrelevant detail! You must go positively haywire in a tavern's outhouse," she teased.

He looked around the modest village. It was getting dark and they would have to find somewhere to overnight in soon.

"Speaking of tavern…We shouldn't ride any further tonight. We should inquire about a room at the local inn."

Yen turned and contemplated the rustic building behind them. A muddy patch of garden flanked the inn and the huddled bodies of sleeping pigs could be seen from a makeshift shed.

"Oof." She scrunched her nose. "It appears the best room is already taken," she joked, nodding towards the shed.

"You complain, but the truth is they probably serve the freshest bacon in the region."

"You know, all this unpleasantness with roadside inns of dubious cleanliness could easily be avoided if only you would consider a quick trip through a portal…"

"Tell me you don't like being outdoors, enjoying the fresh air, the countryside."

"Not really," she told him, pursing her lips. "But I must despise it less than you despise portals."

"I knew you'd understand." Geralt grinned, taking their horses' reins and approaching the sullen stable boy waiting outside the inn.

* * *

Geralt stepped into the inn's small tavern to wait while Yen cast the usual barrage of spells back in their room to create layers of protection and defense against an assortment of typical menaces: lice, bedbugs, fleas, mites, and more. He knew once they retired for the evening, he would not even recognize the very plain room with the simple wooden bedframe and overstuffed straw mattress. He could tell, from the look of revulsion on her face once they found themselves alone, that she would be a while.

When she finally joined him, she found him sitting alone at a table, a crock of stew before him.

"I did what I could," she lamented, taking the bench facing him.

"I'm sure it looks splendid," he assured her.

"As long as we don't catch anything ghastly."

"I think the innkeeper would charge us a small fortune were he to discover all the upgrades." Geralt smiled.

Yen grinned back coyly.

"I may have added a few…luxuries."

"I wouldn't be surprised to find the pigs wearing petticoats," he provoked.

"Right now I'd settle for our innkeeper to wear proper pants," she remarked in a low voice, averting her eyes from the large burly man wearing loose and short white braies.

Geralt nodded towards the man and he acknowledged the signal as if given a cue. He quickly disappeared through a side door and promptly stepped out with another crock of stew and a few slices of hearty dark bread.

"Thank you," she addressed the man politely while avoiding glances at his most indiscreet garment.

When the man was out of earshot, Geralt couldn't resist prodding her.

"I'm impressed. You handled yourself quite well! I was half expecting you to cast some trousers on him."

"I'd rather use my skills to remove the pants off a different man." She winked slyly as she raised a spoonful of stew, puckering her full lips and lightly blowing over the steam.

Geralt contemplated her, a pleasant shudder coursing up his spine. He liked her not-so-subtle proposition.

* * *

"Not too bad, don't you think?" he asked, seeking confirmation once they finished their supper.

He did feel a modicum of guilt over making her travel the dusty roads back to Corvo Bianco. Their trip had been long, and while it had been pleasant — they had been with Ciri and later on traveled to Novigrad to see Dandelion — he was eager to get back home, now that he had one.

They had eaten their stew engaged in pleasant conversation, drinking some dry Temerian wine, their knees brushing flirtatiously beneath the table. The tavern was quiet in a peaceful way: some men played a round of Gwent and occasionally interjected or indulged in some bragging. In the corner of the tavern, a young man in some ridiculously foppish attire two sizes too big for him was softly strumming the same three chords on his lute, but singing different melodies. Three small children all sat before him, mesmerized.

"That was passable," Yen decided, dabbing the napkin over her lips.

The innkeeper returned to clear out their crocks and cutlery. Just as Geralt was about to leave some coin on the table, the man announced,

"Dessert will be out in a moment."

Yen glanced at Geralt in bewilderment after the man left.

" A dessert _course_?" she whispered. "In _Temeria_?"

"What if it's another crock of stew?" Geralt asked, amused. The amusement, though, was quickly wiped away from his face when the man returned from the kitchen with two elaborately plated dishes.

"Sękacz," he informed them, delicately placing a porcelain plate before each of them. "With warm Ofieri chocolate for dipping," he explained, setting down a ramekin filled with dark luscious chocolate flecked with hazelnuts.

"Ooh!" the men playing Wicked Grace looked over their shoulders to gape lustily at the fare.

"For dining patrons _only_ ," the man declared in a peevish tone. "Enjoy," he stated more amiably at them.

Both he and Yen stared at the elegantly displayed dessert.

"Is your medallion humming?" Yen asked in disbelief.

"No, but my stomach is rumbling."

They each ventured a bite. Within seconds, they spontaneously interjected with delight and appreciation.

"It is perfect!" Yen concluded. "The consistency…The amount of sweetness….Look at the rings- beautifully baked— it's a marvel."

Geralt concurred by nodding enthusiastically. He couldn't remember when he had last sampled such a satisfying, delicious treat. After a few more bites, Yen dunked some of her cake into the chocolate.

"Mmm…" She closed her eyes contentedly. "It's divine. I would have never expected to find such a delicacy in a place like this."

They ate their portions with covetous pleasure. Geralt arched an eyebrow at Yen as she mischievously swiped the last bit of chocolate sauce from the ramekin with her finger and sucked it clean.

"You are making that look terribly naughty," he insinuated.

"You, better than anyone, know that both gluttony and lust can be considered venal sins," she argued. He reached for the coins he'd pocketed earlier, eager to get her back to the room.

"How do you figure?" he challenged her.

"According to Lebioda, if there was no original intent to sin," she stated with feigned innocence. "That attenuates a sin's mortality…"

"Well, Lebioda would have declared this dessert dangerous to the flock's moral fortitude, regardless." Geralt enjoyed their pseudo-academic debates.

"No doubt about it," she agreed. "Thank goodness I don't count myself among the faithful!" she uttered softly, brushing her leg against his. "I'll be damned…But satisfied."

* * *

The man returned to receive Geralt's money and retrieve the plates.

"How was it?" he asked smugly.

"I must ask: who made this dessert?" Yen wondered.

"I can only take credit for the stew. Magdala makes my desserts."

Geralt peered up at the man.

 _Aah. A mystery solved. The notes on the board. That's to whom they were referring._ In that case, the praise was quite accurate. That Magdala person really was talented.

"Please give her our compliments!" Yen declared as if she were addressing the host at some fine dining establishment at a great capital city— not some rustic backwater.

"She left for the night, but I most certainly will! Thank you!" He gleefully pocketed the coins—Geralt had tipped him generously for the unexpected treat.

"Where did she learn to bake like that? Did she train in Vizima? Or perhaps Novigrad? I wouldn't be surprised if you said Nilfgaard, even."

"Nope," the man shook his head proudly. "Magdala was born and raised in Rhuddilain. Learned to make desserts right here!" He poked the tabletop firmly as if to prove his point.

"I'd very much like to meet her," Yen told him.

* * *

Moments later, Geralt finally managed to steer her back into the bedroom, assailing her with ardent kisses as they toppled over the enchanted brocaded bedspread. After a moment, he pulled away and examined her pensively.

"What's the matter?" she asked, mildly exasperated.

"I may be feeling a little jealous," he admitted.

Her lovely violet eyes widened in surprise.

"Jealous?" she puzzled.

"I don't think you've ever looked at me as lustily as you looked at that dessert…" he teased, yanking up his shirt.

She laughed, swatting him gamely on the arm.

"Perhaps if I were to cover you in chocolate sauce…Although you are quite delectable as you are," she suggested, leaning over and nipping his ear lightly.

He grinned and then pulled her against him, crushing her lips with a hungry kiss.

A faint taste of chocolate still lingered on both their lips.

* * *

He awoke in the middle of the night, his medallion vibrating lightly over his chest. He raised his head slightly, peering at the window, his heightened senses trained on every sound, every hint of motion.

Outside, a low growl preceded a peculiar sound—a ruffling and tearing that went on for a few seconds.

The medallion hummed louder and Geralt swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his silver blade. Yen moaned sleepily at the disturbance, oblivious to the events unfurling.

But just as suddenly as the medallion had begun thrumming, it stopped. He waited for a few minutes, his muscles tense, ready to spring up at the slightest threat; as time passed, though, he realized all was back to normal. He relaxed his grip and placed the sword back against the wall, by the bed. He'd check the surroundings the next day, he decided.

Convinced there was nothing else he could do, he slipped back beneath the covers, spooning with Yen and enjoying the feel of her, soft and warm, against his skin.


	2. Notes, Treats, and Mysteries

"It's so beautifully arranged on the plate - you know someone's fingers have been all over it."  
― Julia Child

* * *

 

Short and slender, Magdala had a nervous air about her. Her springy, curly hair—an unruly mop sitting on her head—seemed to compound the impression that she appeared to have too much energy, too many ideas erupting and colliding in her head. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other while the innkeeper introduced her to them. She kept her arms crossed and her eyes darted about the room.

"Where did you ever learn to cook like that?" Yen heaped praise on her.

She smiled.

"Oh, I don't fancy meself a cook, m'lady. T'is only desserts I like to make. I've been learning for years now, I have. I collect recipes—from all over the land!"

"Well, you have a remarkable talent," Yen reiterated. "I am sure that if it were something you wanted, you could apprentice with some of the best—"

The woman's eyes widened and she cast Yen a radiant smile.

"You pay me a high compliment, m'lady!"

"I assure you it is well deserved." Yen nodded, hoping that with that, the conversation would be concluded.

"Would you care to write down your praise for me?"

Geralt raised his head slightly from his tea. Yen was evidently taken aback.

"Pardon?"

Magdala had run off behind the bar to fetch some parchment and a thick coal pencil.

"It'll only take a minute and I'd be ever grateful, I would!" she stated eagerly, setting the parchment before Yen.

"What should I write?" She cast him a discreet look of surprise as she gripped the coal stick.

Magdala nodded, seemingly used to the scenario.

"You ought to say: 'Magdala is one of the finest dessert cooks I ever met! And I've been around the world!'"

"Indeed!" Yen blinked at the parchment before scribbling a few lines.

Magdala clasped her hands gleefully and whisked the note away as soon as she was through.

"Thank you! Truly!"

The innkeeper cleared his throat.

"Will you be staying with us for another night?"

"We were planning on departing this—" Geralt began.

He was interrupted by a small commotion outside.

"Well, I'll be a whoreson!" an older voice cried out. "The notice board has been vandalized… _Again_!"

Geralt followed the innkeeper and Magdala out to the tavern entrance, scattering the chickens in the front yard.

A modest crowd stood before the board.

"T'is worse than usual. Any ideas who's gone and done this mischief?" the man who'd originally cried out challenged the other folk around him.

"Probably Brigid's young 'uns," another man muttered.

"Oi, you leave my boys out o' this!" a stout woman barked. "They's nice lads!"

"Caught them pilfering fruit in my orchard just yesterday!" the man complained.

"Them's also _growing_ lads," the woman sniffed, facing the board again.

The board had been stripped bare. All the notices and notes had been torn down and shredded. A few scraps still clung to the board, while some ripped up fragments stuck between the leaves of a low-lying bush sprawling beneath the board. Only one note remained, defiantly billowing in the morning breeze.

"Won't you travel down the Trail of Treats? No gluttons, fools, or cheats."

There was something else, too. The board had been scratched— _No, gouged_ , Geralt noted. Someone had assailed the board in quite a fury.

He narrowed his eyes. He noticed that Magdala's gaze was fixed upon the solitary note.

"Well!" she exclaimed, seizing one of the small nails partially embedded in the board frame and plucking it out. She spread the note Yen had written only moments before over the board and pinned it up determinedly.

She made a point to cover the other note.

"Master Witcher, if you an' your good lady are planning on staying for another night, I'll make you a dessert you'll never forget."

The crowd gaped at her in surprise as she turned on her heels, and rubbing her hands vigorously, sauntered back to the tavern.

 _Interesting,_ Geralt decided.

Yen, who finally wandered over as the crowd slowly dispersed, glanced at the board.

"Why do I have the feeling you are going to suggest we delay our departure by another day?" she sighed.

"I had no idea that among your many talents, mind reading was featured so prominently!" he joked. There was something odd going on, and he was intrigued.

"It's a shame it isn't one of _your_ talents. I don't think you'd like to know what I'm thinking right now." She glared at him.

"How can you pass up on dessert?" he teased, crouching down and examining the ground.

"And you gather that is appropriate consolation?" Yen's expression softened, though. "Very well. We'll leave tomorrow, then."

* * *

 Geralt focused on the ground. His eyesight was sharp and he could discern a set of tracks in the loamy ground.

_Curious tracks._

"Necrophage," he mumbled. "Right foot drags a bit. "But…Strange. See, here?" he pointed at what looked like pockmarks before each set of steps. "Whatever it is, it has difficulty walking and uses some kind of walking stick…cane…or staff," he concluded.

Yen yawned.

"I'm glad I have something to read back in the room," she remarked.

Geralt was too absorbed in his task, though. He followed a trail down an unkempt dirt path that took him out through a less conspicuous entrance to the village. He was able to follow it through some brush, but once the terrain became rockier, the trail faded. There was nothing else to go on—no vestiges and no odor, for instance, for him to track. On his way to the village, he did find something curious and was surprised he'd missed it the first time around. He crouched down, examining his clue as it stood out brightly, even as tiny ants crowded around it. He pinched the small object between his fingertips and held it up to the sun. It was a deep orange color—the shade of celandine flowers—and was flecked with tiny specks of white. It was translucent and firm, but not hard.

He sniffed it.

 _Sugar_.

He thought of Magdala, who had so brazenly stuck Yen's note on the board after the attack and decided to return to the tavern.

* * *

 "Magdala," Geralt called out as he entered the tavern's small kitchen. He met with a pair of fierce eyes as she looked up from the large ball of dough she was assailing with all her might. She paused her vigorous kneading and wiped her forearm across her forehead. A trail of flour powdered the front of her apron all the way up to her cheek.

"I was wondering if you could help me with something," he began, reaching for the little orange candy in his pocket. He placed it on the butcher block next to her. "What is this?"

She wiped her hands into a dishrag and stared at it.

"You are joking, of course."

"Give me some credit: I know much better jokes."

"Come now! Any child knows what this is!" she protested.

He refrained from telling her that his hadn't been that kind of childhood.

"It's a _żelcki_!" she scolded him. "Little soft candy…this one is covered in sugar. It's more like a jelly bonbon," she concluded. "It's fairly easy to make and you can make it in many different colors," she went on. "This one here…This one…" She sniffed it and then took a small, tentative bite.

Geralt decided it was too late to inform her he'd found the candy lying on the ground, swarmed by ants.

"This one only has flavor 'cause of the sugar. For this color, I'd use them oranges—give the whole thing real flavor—but oranges are rare this way. Very rare. They never make the trip from the warmer places. The Ofieri traders that come this way don't even bother trying anymore. This here, t'is probably made with turmeric."

She plunked it down and resumed her fervent kneading.

"Anything more?"

"Anyone else in the village share your passion for making desserts?"

She paused for a moment; her fists balled up and a sad expression flashed across her face. As if thinking better of it, though, she scoffed. _A bit too quickly_ , Geralt found.

"It's one thing to have passion…Another to have talent!" she proclaimed vehemently.

"Well?" he persisted, arching an eyebrow.

She huffed.

"How should I know? No one worth mentioning. Not anymore, anyway, I reckon! The village is full o' children! Bratty li'l children who love sweets! Any sweets!" she sneered.

* * *

 

"There's no such thing as an insignificant clue," Geralt insisted.

"You have to admit…Finding a piece of candy in a village full of children is hardly much to go on," Yen remarked, trying to slice through the nervy, tough roast the innkeeper had served for their dinner that night along with a side of scorched turnips seasoned with too much rosemary.

"I have the feeling something odd is going on in this village."

"Yes," Yen finally concurred, chewing her bite with concentrated effort. "You might be right about that…"

He said nothing; instead, he stabbed one of the chunky turnips with renewed vindication.

"Anyhow, I do hope you find whatever the candy came in," she added.

He squinted at her.

"What do you mean by—"

"So you can 'wrap up' this mystery," she teased, not looking up from her dish.

He placed his fork down and glared at her.

"I didn't find your play on words funny."

She was greatly amused at his reaction.

"Forgive me, Geralt. I know you prefer it when I'm being _sweet_ ," she continued daringly.

"Actually, a _tart_ ," he teased back. "More fun."

She grimaced.

"You're right. Let's stop. Neither one of us has the gift for such jesting," she decided.

"Well, that _soured_ fast!" he quipped, not able to resist.

The crossed arms over her chest indicated that his comeuppance was nigh, but she did not have the time to make a devastating statement, as Magdala herself entered the tavern carrying a platter towards them. Both he and Yen looked on in stupefaction.

On the platter was a pie of sorts, but instead of a regular baked top crust, the pie was topped with delicately sliced plums arranged in a spiral that resembled tiny flower petals. The entire thing, with its contrasting deep yellow and rich red sliced plums, made him think of a blooming peony flower.

It was the most beautiful dessert he had ever seen.

"Tonight I have a recipe that's from farther south," Magdala explained. Even the Gwent players placed their cards face down on the table and approached them to gape at the masterpiece. "Behold: _zwetschkenkuchen_!" she declared confidently.

"Bless you…" one of the elderly card players murmured.

"It's simply…remarkable." Yen observed Magdala cut a slice without disturbing the arrangement of sliced plums.

* * *

 

"Geralt," Yen murmured a few minutes later. "This pie…This is perfection." She raked her fork over the crust. "Look—this is buttery, but flakey…And every single bite is perfectly balanced—every single plum is in its prime."

He couldn't disagree. It _was_ exquisite.

And for some reason that nagged at him, that bothered him.

* * *

 "What did you think?" Magdala asked them eagerly after they both had seconds.

"You should be baking for kings and emperors," Yen complimented her.

She turned to Geralt, expectantly.

"It was very good," he concurred. Magdala's brow furrowed comically.

"And?"

"Delicious?"

" _And_?" she insisted impatiently.

"It was beautiful. It made me think of a flower," he stated sincerely.

Magdala's scowl finally gave way to a broad smile, but instead of simply nodding or thanking him for the compliment, she thrust a strip of parchment at him and offered him a stick of charcoal.

"Write that down, please," she ordered him seriously.

* * *

"Oh, all artists are temperamental!" Yen reasoned later on, back in their bedroom. Geralt noticed she had changed the color scheme in the room: from subdued reds to a rich lavender.

"It's more than that!" he argued, unbuckling his belt. "I understand artists... And that their imaginations lead them down the path of nonconformity…But don't you think it's strange that Magdala has this compunction to flood the town notice board with slips of paper declaring her culinary prowess for everyone to see? And then the board is vandalized—the only note remaining also about desserts?"

"What do you think is going on?" she wondered, brushing out her sleek dark hair.

He sat on the bed and began yanking off his boots.

"What is she trying to prove? And to whom?" he puzzled.

"I am getting the feeling that we will not be taking off tomorrow, neither," she lamented, placing her hairbrush down.

"I'm sorry. I need to find out what is going on here. I know there is something…but what?" he continued, perplexed.

"All right," she agreed with resignation. "If you must. You'll be insufferable otherwise."

He exhaled loudly.

"Old habits die hard, Yen. I've been doing this for too long to simply turn my back when my instincts tell me otherwise." He reached for her hand and pulled her towards him. "I promise I'll make it up to you."

She examined him as he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, a plaintive expression on his rugged face. He noticed that the flimsy, gauzy gown she had changed into a bit earlier barely concealed the fact she was wearing absolutely nothing beneath it. Without a further word, she pushed him down onto the bed, knelt over him, and straddled his hips. As she perched over his bare chest, she offered him a cheeky half grin.

"I think I am going to take you up on that promise right now," she said sultrily.

He had no objections to that.

* * *

 "Yen?" he whispered later as she lay in his arms.

"Mm?" she replied as she gently stroked his chest.

"I want you to know something," he began. She shifted slightly and raised her head to face him.

"You…You are even more beautiful than the zwetschkenkuchen," he said, in his most serious manner.

Yen dropped her head back down on his shoulder, snorting lightly. He hugged her tighter.

"And more delicious, too."

She buried her face in his neck and laughed.


	3. A Wake-up Call

"To live, a man needs food, water, and a sharp mind."  
― Louis Zamperini

* * *

What awoke Geralt that night wasn't his medallion humming, but rustling and hushed voices outside their window.

"Anything?"

"Nothing!"

"Damnation!"

"Keep looking—check behind Saskia's cottage, as well!"

He stood up and approached the shuttered windows and tried to peer outside. He caught a glimpse of torches and shadows rushing about and frowned.

"Yen!" he called out in a raspy whisper. He traced Igni over a double-armed candleholder, igniting all the wicks at once. She sat up on the bed, disoriented.

"What is going on?"

"Villagers are restless—they're carrying torches. I don't like it. Be prepared in case they try to—"

A loud rap sounded against the door and he and Yen exchanged wary glances. He reached for his sword.

"Master witcher?" It was the innkeeper. "I am terribly sorry to bother you at this hour, but I was hoping you could be of aid to us."

Geralt eyed the door suspiciously.

"What is the matter?"

"T'is Marta—Zosia's little girl. She's gone missing. We was wondering if you could help track her."

"I'll be right out," Geralt agreed, cautiously. He peered out the window once more. Two men stood in the field clutching their torches and gazing out into the dark night. One rubbed his chin while the other shrugged. Both appeared concerned.

"Hm. Doesn't appear like we're in any kind of peril," he remarked.

"I hope it isn't too late for the poor child." She rose from the bed and walked towards the dresser.

A little girl lost. Many accusations had been wrought against Yennefer—that she was unfeeling and selfish. In some cases, the accusations were accurate. But not when young children were involved. Especially little girls. She was out the door before he was.

* * *

As soon as they approached the small village square, the innkeeper made an announcement.

"I asked the witcher to help us!"

"Milos!" a heavily bearded man hissed. "What are you thinking, man?" He leaned towards them nervously. "Thank you, Master Witcher, but your services are not necessary!"

"How can you say that?" the innkeeper protested. "We don't know where Marta—"

"We've spoken to the other children! They said they saw her head towards the Shallows," he explained pointedly. "Do you understand? Towards the _Shallows_ ," he repeated warningly.

"The Shallows…" The innkeeper nodded as a realization dawned upon him. "I see."

He turned to Geralt.

"Forgive me again, Master Witcher. Don't you worry 'bout this matter no further," he quickly apologized

"What's at the Shallows?' Geralt asked suspiciously. Yen's brow was furrowed as well.

"Ooh, just swamps," the other man quickly replied. "With plenty o' places for mischievous children to hide."

A few others around them nodded.

"And plenty of places for other things to hide as well!" Yen warned. "The poor child must be frightened out of her mind. Let us try to find her," she suggested, seeking Geralt's eyes. He nodded affirmatively.

"Right! It would help if we could speak to the children who saw her last right before she disappeared," he stated, peering at a disheveled boy peering out at them from behind his father's legs.

"T'is no good. They's all asleep, you see. Tomorrow," a woman noted ominously, shooing the boy towards a nearby hut. "Tomorrow you may speak to them."

"Marta's gone off on the Trail of Treats!" the boy chirped over his shoulder.

Geralt's expression hardened.

"Off with you now!" the woman ordered sternly. The boy visibly cowered and disappeared into a hut.

"Trail of Treats?" he asked.

"Nevermind that: t'is jus' children bein' children," another man explained dismissively.

A matronly woman acted out an exaggerated yawn. It was possibly the hammiest yawn he'd ever witnessed, even worse than anything he'd seen Dandelion perform.

"Well, I am off to bed! T'is late! Much to do tomorrow."

"Aye!" a heartfelt agreement resounded among the group.

People gradually wandered away, back into their huts, and all the torches were doused out for the night.

* * *

"I beginning to suspect there is something very wrong with this village," Yen declared.

"You think?" Geralt stared at her in disbelief. "What have I been saying all along?"

"This doesn't seem like the sort of village where miserable parents send their children off into the woods with the promise of sweets and a comfortable life," Yen pondered somberly. "They seem to be faring well enough for such a small, out of the way village!"

His eyes widened with a sudden understanding.

"Yen, I think you cracked the riddle!"

"What are you thinking?"

"It's like you said: to what do these villagers owe their modest prosperity? The war between the North and Nilfgaard may have ended, but things have not improved drastically for most folks. And yet, this little village is somehow thriving…It's as if something were manipulating the odds in their favor…"

"Yes…That does make sense… Something manipulating the odds in their favor, offering them protection…" Yen grew silent at her own realization. "But these arrangements are usually dependent on some kind of exchange. Any favors are always conditional. There is always a price to pay." She contemplated Geralt. "You know that well."

"I do," he stated dryly. "And you and I have heard enough stories to know why children end up wandering down a Trail of Treats."

"Yes. Stories of children cast away for their transgressions: spilling a jug of milk while at play, having the audacity to outgrow clothing, or the nerve to wail with hunger when there is no dinner! Some people do not deserve to breed," she stated contemptuously, her eyes steely.

Geralt felt a pang in his chest. She had yearned to bear a child; he knew she would not harbor much sympathy for those who did not appreciate such a boon.

"We also know who awaits children at the end of these trails."

"I can think of at least one: actual witches or…"

"I'm thinking: a relict."

"Hmm…You might be on to something. Even a powerful witch would have trouble sustaining a village this size for so long."

"I wonder…" Geralt continued, troubled. "It wouldn't be the first time I've come across some treacherous creature taking advantage of folk's credulity for its own gain. And relicts' abilities tend to be unique."

"It does make sense. Relicts do have a strong connection to nature and old elemental magic. Once they settle in a region, they quickly establish their territory and guard it quite zealously. So let's imagine that a relict lives here, posing as a hedge witch to ensure continued offerings…And is demanding a sinister fee in exchange for making sure crops are plentiful and ailments are cured. Do you think these people are credulous and superstitious enough to acquiesce to such bargains?"

"You forgot 'desperate'. But more to the point: exactly. Don't forget that people often inherit these beliefs; they don't know the world without them. Opportunistic beings thrive in a place where dogma is not questioned."

"If you are right, there is little hope for poor Marta."

"There just might be…Sometimes these creatures take their time. Some are quite old, established, and convinced of their own divinity and like to go about such matters ceremonially. Sometimes they like to fatten their preys up. "

"But what if it isn't a relict? What if we are dealing with something else?"

"Not _we_ , Yen. I am going to visit the Shallows _alone_."

"I am coming with you," she asserted firmly. "Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire."

Upon seeing the determination on her face, he was tempted to relent.

"Fire with fire? You are nothing like a swamp witch," he told her, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Most definitely not."

"I know that." She raised her eyes to him alluringly. "I meant more like fighting magic with magic."

He exhaled heavily.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"This almost makes me wish I'd taken that portal." At her bemused expression, he added, "Almost."

* * *

They agreed that venturing out to the swamps at night would not be a wise course of action. They were unfamiliar with the area and worried about alerting or alarming the creature if they entered its territory. There was no saying how it would react, especially if it panicked while holding Marta hostage. He preferred to collect more information before heading out to fulfill a contract.

Relicts often attracted other relicts and not all of them were of the demonic or bloodthirsty variety, he remembered. He thought of the mischievous, childlike godlings, and slothful sylvans.

 _Ancient beings, most of them. Practically a dying breed. Even the earliest legends of the elves contained descriptions and accounts of encounters with relicts_ _._

He remained awake, unable to sleep, waiting for the first sign of morning. He made sure he left their room while Yennefer was still sleeping soundly.


	4. An Unfortunate Toast

"People who love to eat are always the best people." - Julia Child

* * *

One thing Geralt knew he could always count on was the fact that Yennefer relished her sleep. He shut the door behind him quietly, cursing under his breath as the floorboards creaked beneath his boots.

No one was awake yet—not even the innkeeper. The fireplace in the tavern glowed faintly and a heap of ashes sullied its bricks. He arranged a few items he planned on taking with him to the swamp and went over the next steps he would need to take. First, he would follow a trail from the village—he suspected the one on which he'd found the orange candy would be the right one. There would undoubtedly be some kind of shrine. Such beings delighted in shows of legitimacy and their followers tended to oblige, carving effigies and consecrating sacred space for them. Around the shrine there would be an assortment of treats—copious amounts spread about, ready to be plucked by greedy little hands, but the spell on them would be such that touching one immediately made the next look more irresistible and so on, leading to a covetous jaunt down the path, until one had strayed too deep, too far.

Geralt had readied himself for his mission when a new uproar erupted in the square. He made out shouts, banging doors, and hurried footsteps that rushed past the inn's front door.

"Marta!" someone cried out. "Marta!"

"Marta!" voices kept calling. "She's back!"

 _Did she escape?_ Geralt wondered, quickly stepping outside and running into an assembled a crowd— the same people from the previous evening.

Either the child had escaped…or the relict witch had returned her to the village with a purpose: a message, a warning, perhaps a lure.

"Are you all right?" a kindly voice in the middle of the group asked.

A loud shriek echoed nearby and several heads rose to see its provenance. A young woman burst out of a hut pinching her skirt up and hurried down towards the square.

"Marta! My Marta! Are you unharmed, love?" the woman asked, rushing past the spectators and splaying her hands over a freckle-faced little girl with hair the color of rust.

"Uuugh," the child groaned loudly.

"What's wrong?" someone asked worriedly. "Are you not well?"

Geralt pushed through the crowd swiftly.

"What happened?" he asked brusquely, crouching down and peering into the little girl's large brown eyes. They were bleary and rimmed with tears.

"I don' feel well," she moaned, clutching her belly.

Many thoughts coursed through Geralt's mind: _poison_? _A spell? An illness brought upon the village to elicit more tributes?_

"I couldn't help meself," the child mourned. "I's eaten too much." She closed her eyes. "T'was all so, so good," she admitted fervently.

"What did you bring back?" a man asked eagerly.

"It's all in my pack. I don' think I could eat another bite," the child complained.

Geralt had balked at the man's tone-deaf question. He was even more stupefied when the crowd stepped away from the child, leaving her cradled in her relieved mother's arms and huddled around the discarded pack. A wiry man had taken it upon himself to unravel the mystery. He undid the pack and pulled out a large bundle of cheesecloth.

"What is it this time?" the matronly woman from the previous evening inquired. "Hurry! Hurry!"

 _What the hell is going on?_ Geralt puzzled, blinking at the almost festive atmosphere that was settling over the village.

The man reverently tugged at the cloth, undoing the bundle, and to everyone's delight, it was stuffed with a golden pastry filled with glistening yellow or red jam. The man raised one to his mouth and bit. A warm, blissful expression crossed his face and he grinned.

"It's kolaczki!"

The villagers erupted in a volley of cheers and clapping and the man began handing them to all the eagerly extended hands around him. He stopped before Geralt.

"Here! One for you and one for your lady."

"Heh! I wonder if the second one will ever reach its destination!" a plump bearded man cackled, slapping Geralt on the back unceremoniously.

"What just happened?" Geralt asked aloud, holding the pastries in the palm of his hand.

No one bothered to reply. They were all munching and savoring their kolaczki contentedly. He felt a hand brush over his arm and when he swirled around to see who had accosted him yet again, met with Yen's inquisitive eyes.

"What is going on here?" She regarded all the munching aroung them suspiciously.

"The child has returned." He indicated the small Marta, curled up in her mother's lap. The mother, to his bewilderment, was enjoying her own kolaczki as well, with a thoroughly joyful expression. From what he had been able to observe, though, the child exhibited nothing more worrisome than a tummy ache due to overindulgence.

"Here. The child brought these back from the witch for everyone." One of the villagers handed her one of the pastries off Geralt's palm, the gem-like red jelly adorning both open ends of the dough.

Yen discreetly sniffed it.

"I don't sense anything…No magic, no spells…Do you?"

"No," Geralt agreed. I don't smell any poison, either."

Before he could remind her about odorless and tasteless poisons, Yen ventured a small bite. Hard suspicion turned into sheer satisfaction as she proceeded to nibble on the pastry.

"Oh, Geralt! You must try this!" she sighed, licking off a dollop of red jam from the corner of her mouth.

Try as he might, he could not discern any spells or any vestiges of magic to explain the irrational behavior everyone was exhibiting.

Including, he noted with slight concern, Yennefer.

"Are you going to eat yours?" She stared at his pastry lustily.

He sniffed it again, engaging all his sharp senses, striving to find any indications of supernatural trickery and deception. He cautiously bit off the end, ingesting some of the golden-colored jam.

It was…delicious.

The pastry dough crumbled with just the right amount of crunch while the jam dissolved on his tongue after giving him a jolt of sweetness balanced with pleasant tartness.

 _Apricots_ , he noted.

He was sorry when he plucked the last buttery crumb off his glove.

"So, what did you think, master witcher?" the plump bearded man asked. The other villagers examined both him and Yen curiously.

"It was quite…I can't even describe it."

"That was the best pastry I's ever eaten," the young man holding the pack declared decisively.

"No wonder Marta is sick to 'er stomach. I wouldn't 'ave been able to stop meself either!"

"Truly the best," another villager sighed. "I ought to tack a note to the board sayin' so!"

An angry growl sounded from the end of their circle and Geralt discerned the frizzy mop that was Magdala's hair bobbing up and down as she elbowed her way through to the center.

"How _dare_ you!" she roared accusingly at them. "I want to hear you say that to me face, Thomas!" she challenged, wagging her finger at the young man who still held the pack and cheesecloth on his lap.

"I, I…" he stuttered in a panic.

"Shame on all of you!" she cried out. "Here I am, trying to please everyone and when I turn around, you go off an' sing the praises of that…that… _monster_!" she accused. "I have provided everyone here with ample proof that I am the best baker! Shame on you!"

"But Magdala…It's quite _good_." He unwrapped the cheesecloth and revealed one last kolaczki—it had been crushed during transport and broken in half, but from the looks of bewilderment all around them, Geralt suspected no one would have minded the appearance of the pastry one bit. The man gingerly handed her the pastry. She snatched it from his hands, examining it with calculated disdain. She was frowning as she peered at it, but once she nibbled off a piece, her expression changed to one of complete stupefaction. She chewed slowly, pensively, thoroughly concentrated.

"It's very tasty, don't you agree?" the stout matron asked her cheerfully.

Magdala lip's quivered and her eyes watered.

"It's not possible! I cannot believe it! So brazen!"

A slow fury was building up in the woman, Geralt could tell, as she balled up her fists and her body tensed. After a moment of silence, she sought him out among the crowd.

"Master witcher, I have a contract for you."

Everyone grew silent.

"It's a contract to rid our village of that witch…The Witch of the Shallows!" she declared.

Mayhem ensued.

"No!"

"Don't you dare!"

"Don't do it, witcher!"

Magdala was cowed by the furious upheaval. Bursting into tears, she rushed down the path, back to her cottage, away from them all. It was only after the small spectacle had concluded that the villagers turned back, somewhat sheepishly, to face Geralt.

* * *

"All right. Who wants to set the record straight?" Geralt challenged them.

An older man cast him a pained look.

"Do not hurt the witch," he pleaded.

"Yea," a woman juggling two squirmy toddlers in her arms seconded. "She's done us no harm."

"Quite the contrary!" another voice interjected.

Low mumbles of agreement followed.

Geralt decided he needed to learn more about the witch. If she was in fact only a hedge witch, then it was possible she was as harmless as the villagers claimed she was. He knew, though, that whoever this was could very well be masquerading as one. Hadn't he run into powerful sorceresses hiding out in remote villages and dispensing recipes to cure warts and enchanting baubles to spice up lovers' nights? And in the case of relicts posing as powerful benefactresses…People would confer honorary titles upon them, such as "Good Lady" or "Our Mother" and were wary of inviting their displeasure. Was the villagers' concern for their witch genuine? Or was it a fear of retribution?

_Perhaps both._

He needed to ask a few things before he set off into the swamps to meet the witch.

No one would talk to him, through. The crowd had dispersed earlier, sullenly. Even Marta's mother hauled her child up into her arms while casting him worried glares. Anyone he tried to approach throughout the morning refused to engage him on the topic. At one point, he glanced towards the inn.

Perhaps there were those who would help him. He would just have to play his cards right, he realized.

* * *

"My Gwent cards…Where would they be?" Geralt wondered as he perused their room that evening.

Now their room was bedecked in elegant fabrics in shades of gold and orange. Yen soaked in a long tub she had conjured near the fireplace. She languidly raised one of her shapely legs and ran a sudsy washcloth over it.

The gesture distracted him for a few seconds, but he was determined to carry out his plan. And as Yen would argue, he was _stubborn_.

"It's a clever idea, but it will require that you outplay the villagers at Gwent. Would you like me to enchant your deck?" she offered, feigning innocence. She knew just how to prick his pride.

"I can win without magic, I'll have you know," he scolded her.

She shrugged. She was quite the vision that evening, with her dark, pinned up hair contrasting with her light violet eyes.

"No need to be offended. I just thought I'd expedite matters."

He found the deck in a small pouch tucked in a chest.

"You've gone up against bigger threats with far less information—why don't you just go examine these infamous Shallows yourself?"

"Facing the witch isn't what is concerning me," he explained. "I would rather not find an angry mob when I return with a trophy from their beloved witch…Or discover that slaughtering the witch results in unleashing several monsters that decimate the village."

"Would you like me to come along?" she offered, the surface of the water barely skimming the top of her breasts.

"No!" He averted his gaze with great effort.

"I'm only trying to help," she chastised him flirtatiously. "I am offering my expertise as a magic-wielder on the subject of another magic wielder. I might have an insight into the witch, as a fellow… 'witch' of sorts… that you lack."

"Are you comparing yourself to a swamp witch again? We've been over this," he teased.

"Agnes Lieber once argued in one of her treatises that at the end of the day, enchantresses, sorceresses, witches, wise women…We are all Sisters."

She was trying to wash her back with the soapy cloth and that's when Geralt faltered. He approached the tub and took it from her hand, squeezing warm water over her shoulder blade and rubbing it gently over her skin. She leaned forward, offering him her smooth back, sighing with pleasure.

"Agnes Liber…Interesting... Still, I couldn't imagine you baking a Trail of Treats to lure unsuspecting wanderers," he mused.

"My appetites aren't of that nature," she stated suggestively.

Geralt let his hand drop and began to caress one of her breasts with the cloth.

"That's not what I meant," he muttered absentmindedly, dumping the meddlesome washcloth into the water. His hand glided freely over her soapy breast, her enticing nipple hardening against his fingertips.

"Then what did you mean?" she wondered, leaning her head back alluringly. He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers, their breaths mingling for a tantalizing moment before he replied, without thinking it through:

"Because I don't think you could pull together anything more elaborate than a Trail of Toast," he murmured with a chuckle, nuzzling her cheek.

Yen splashed away from him. Suddenly the atmosphere had become charged in a very different manner.

"What was that supposed to mean?"

Geralt immediately regretted his gaffe.

"It's just that…It takes skill to bake all those treats to entice folks down the trail…" he reasoned. "You have many, many," he took a deep breath, "MANY skills. Baking…Actually, cooking, for that matter, isn't one of them…"

"A Trail of… _Toast_?" she fumed, her eyes narrowing into angry slits.

"What? You're going to get mad at me over that? You can't cook! Neither can I! I can barely roast a hare on a spit when camped out in the wild…" he argued weakly.

She seized a large towel left folded on a nearby chair and wrapped it around herself as she stepped out of the tub.

"I suppose you find me lacking," she accused, running her hands over herself and emerging fully clad in her usual black and white attire.

"I never said such a thing! I was just making an observation!" he protested, so very sorry that all the promise his hands had been fondling had dissipated before his eyes after his ill-chosen words.

"Get out!" she ordered crossly. "I don't want to talk to you, or even LOOK at you right now, Geralt of Rivia!"

"But what about dinner?" he tried to reason.

"Tell the innkeeper to bring my dinner to the room!" she issued with finality, showing him the door. "I find myself quite indisposed at the moment!"

"Fine!" he stormed out, annoyed and frustrated. "Suit yourself!"

* * *

As the door slammed behind him, he patted his gambeson down for the Gwent cards and, with an angry smirk, marched towards the tavern.

"Your lady is not dining tonight?" the innkeeper asked disappointedly.

"No," Geralt grumbled, stabbing the gluey potato stew with his spoon. "She is not feeling well and requested that you bring her dinner to the room."

"What a shame! Is there anything I can do to make her more comfortable?"

Geralt was about to conclude the conversation with a resounding 'No," when he was possessed by a mischievous idea.

"Yeah—stick a couple slices of toast on her tray."

"Very well!" The innkeeper nodded before disappearing into the kitchen.

He focused on the Gwent players throughout dinner, making sure to make more of a show of his 'spectating.' He issued low, impressed whistles and the occasional subdued cheer. The players would nod in acknowledgment, pleased at the attention.

"Good one," Geralt uttered, craning his neck.

One of the old gamblers, a man who spoke in a low drawl, waved him over.

"You alone tonight? Want to join us?"

 _Perfect_ , Geralt grinned surreptitiously as he grabbed his tankard and sat among the card players.

At first, a couple of them seemed a bit discomfitted by his presence. They stared at his scars, his white hair, and his amber eyes. He ignored their gaping, though, and maintained a good-humored attitude, commenting admiringly on their unique decks and laughing at their jokes. He bought them a round of drinks, At this, they cheered and invited him to play. Geralt broke out his deck proudly. He played a couple rounds: lost one, won another, and ordered the men a second round of drinks. He followed this pattern a couple more times. The drinks kept arriving promptly. The cheers grew more ribald and unruly. One of the men even slapped him jovially on the back.

"Oi! You!" another of the gamblers cried out to the aspiring bard who, Geralt had learned from his new friends, turned out to be the innkeeper's bumbling brother-in-law who doubled as his nanny. "Play us a ditty and make it lively, yeah?"

A glinting coin twirled across the air and fell into the lad's lap. His youthful face broke into a wide grin. He gripped his lute and strummed his customary three chords merrily while warbling a common tune.

"Another round of drinks?" Geralt suggested when the innkeeper wandered passed them, glaring at his brother-in-law as his children, unwashed and definitely not ready for bed, slumbered on the tavern's rug.

The innkeeper grimaced as he transported a small tray towards the bedrooms.

"What's that?" Geralt wondered.

"Oh, Magdala left early today on account of…the…Uh…" He thrust a platter at him. "It's dessert. I thought I'd take it to the lady, but I should really get me wee ones to bed 'fore the wife notices…"

"What's that?" The men crowded in greedily. Geralt plucked a dishcloth off it and found a plate of…

_Kolaczki? Curious._

He noticed they looked different from the ones they'd eaten that afternoon: more elaborate, cut more evenly. The jams were different, too: one had a deep purple tinge and the other a rich, rosy color.

"O-ho!" They all cheered rowdily.

"Let's play Gwent!" Geralt rallied them. "But instead of coin, we'll wager the kolaczki!" he indicated the plate. The men's eyes grew larger just contemplating the fine pastries.

"Very well, very well…But what do you get if you win?"

Geralt leaned over, conspiratorially.

"You have to tell me about the Witch of the Shallows," he asked. "Since no one in the village will talk to me about her," he proposed.

The men exchanged glances.

"I dunno," one of them hesitated, suddenly uneasy.

"We's quite fond of her."

Geralt nodded sympathetically. A brief silence overcame the room as he took a kolaczki off the plate. He tapped it lightly against the corner of the platter to shake off some of the excess powdered sugar and took a luscious bite.

"Mmm," he managed to interject. "Raspberry preserve! Magdala must have canned these at their ripest!"

One card player stared openly, his mouth gaping as Geralt chewed.

"Oh…So…!" The man rubbed his meaty hands. "Are we gambling, or what?"

* * *

The cards remained spread across the table, face down, as the men savored the pastries dreamily.

"Ah…So good. That Magdala performs miracles with a sack of flour and sugar, doesn't she?" one of them sighed.

"That she does," another promptly agreed. "But…I thought the pastries this morning were quite good as well."

"Agreed. I can't decide which one I like better! These here are very… fancy!…Look at them! So…dainty!"

The other three cackled at the man's appraisal. Geralt chuckled as well.

"So delicate they make your fingers look like sausages by comparison!" the man sitting next to him remarked.

All five men roared with laughter.

"But the ones this morning…They were…I dunno…"

"Heartier," the bald one completed. "More solid. These ones're…lighter."

"Airier."

"Aye!" they all agreed.

"Good thing Magdala isn't 'ere to listen to us…T'would be bad."

"Aye," the men agreed again, in a more lugubrious tone.

"But why is that? Why does Magdala even care?"

"Because of the witch. She is a cunning cook, isn't she, lads?"

A volley of agreements burst forth.

"And Magdala resents the witch's good treats."

"How long has the witch been…doing this? Baking for your village."

"Let's see…What do you say, boys? About a year is it? Was that Boris' son who wandered down to the Shallows or was it Theodore's?"

"Boris's boy. Probably coursed down that trail like a little truffle hog."

They chuckled once again.

"What happened to Boris' boy?" Geralt asked cautiously.

"Oh, he was fine. Came back after two nights. Clean. Combed. And he brought a bundle back to the village. We all thought the boy was touched in the head when he started goin' on about some witch in a house filled with gingerbread and hard candies, but…Do you all remember what he brought back?"

"Oh, do I ever!" the one with the bushy mustache mused. "Pączki."

"With rose marmalade," the player with the threadbare tunic whispered wistfully.

A moment of silence was held to honor the memory of such a delectable treat.

"I see…" Geralt finally interrupted. "And then?"

"Oh, every once in a while one of the children will go off sniffing in the Shallows. Used to give us quite a fright at first."

"But we's not worried no more. Not once we know where the wee ones 'ave run off to. She hasn't lost one yet, our good witch."

"She keeps them for the night and feeds them. Then she slaps them on the rump and off they go, back home with goodies for us."

Geralt shook his head. Something wasn't right. What sort of self-respecting relict didn't fall upon her victim when successful? Instead, this creature was so lost in her role as gracious hostess that she'd forgotten the whole predatory facet of her nature.

"Does the witch require any…payment, for caring for the children?"

The men checked with each other before answering.

"We do leave her a few things…"

"What kind of things?" Geralt asked interestedly.

"Just…some sundries. And we send her milk, sugar…flour…"

"Anything else?" he prodded.

"Not that I'm aware of."

"You should probably ask the Ealdorman."

"Li'l Clara did bring back a message, once."

"Oh, yes! I remember! She did, din't she?"

"Asked us to leave notes on the town notice board. Just lettin' everyone know how we had enjoyed her desserts."

"That's about the same time Magdala started asking people to leave her notes, too."

"Hmm…Why does she do that?" Geralt asked, intrigued.

"Why, because of the witch! They's competitors!"

"And just what are they competing for?"

"Who knows? Anytime the board gets too full of notes, someone always tears it all down."

"It's torn down by whom?"

"My wager is that it's Magdala."

"Oi, why would she tear down her own notes of praise?"

"I think they take turns tearin' the notes down, depending on who has the most notes."

"Why would Magdala do such a thing?"

"I dunno!"

The player with the pipe placed it down on the table.

"Our Magdala has not been well. Not since…"

"Oh, that's right. That sad story."

The others promptly seconded that.

"Yes…Yes."

"What happened?" Geralt prompted them.

"T'was about the time Aniella ran away. A sad story. Magdala's best friend. Tight, the two o' them were. Like the right and the left hand. Since they was wee lasses. A nice girl, too, that Aniella. Her father was a merchant from Vizima. Had the girl raised here after the troubles began. Her mother had come from the village, you see. He was a clever fox that man and had managed to arrange a very fine marriage prospect for his daughter—right before she ran away, too. Such a shame."

"How long ago was that?"

"Oo, what do you think, boys? How long ago was it?"

"A little over a year."

"Before…or after the witch arrived?"

"A few months before?"

"Yes, yes!"

"That it was. Definitely before the witch."

A sleepy and bloated moroseness began to settle over them.

"T'is getting late."

"Aye."

"Say…Any kolaczki left?"

* * *

It was very late once Geralt headed back to the bedroom. His mind was swirling with theories. One thing he was sure he needed to do, though, was visit the so-called witch the next day. And perhaps he'd try to have a word with Magdala, as well. There was more to that rivalry, he suspected, than a few cake recipes.

A few delightful recipes.

He paused at the bedroom door, stumbling slightly to the side. He was in that curious state between drunkenness and tipsiness. He noticed Yen had stowed her dinner tray on the ground right outside the door. As he pushed it aside with his foot, he noted that she had eaten all her soup…but left the toast untouched. Geralt exhaled guiltily. He knew perfectly well why she had gotten so upset. She had even told him why.

 _I suppose you find me lacking_ , she'd accused him, in a hurt voice.

He was suddenly overwhelmed with tenderness and longing for her. Where the entire world saw her as cold and ruthless, he knew she went to great lengths to conceal her gentler, caring nature. He knew the depths of her devotion to Ciri, her willingness to sacrifice everything for the young woman she loved as her own blood and bone. He'd witnessed the fierceness of her pain when she thought herself spurned and betrayed by him. Hadn't he become privy to the woman's very soul—her strengths…and her vulnerabilities? He knew she harbored regrets and insecurities. There were things that others took for granted that she lamented she could not do. Bearing a child was one. Perhaps the act of preparing a simple meal for her loved ones without employing magic was another? Perhaps she worried he saw it as a shortcoming?

"Aah," he groaned feebly. _I'm an ass_ , he chastised himself.

He faced the door with trepidation.

"Yen?" he called out hoarsely as he knocked lightly.

Nothing. But he heard some noises inside. Footsteps. Moving away from the door, unfortunately.

"Yen, I'm sorry."

"Go away," she commanded irritably. "It was very boorish of you to have the innkeeper bring me _toast_! I suppose you find yourself quite clever!"

He couldn't help grinning. It had been kind of humorous.

But had it been funny enough to warrant the likelihood he'd be sleeping in a barn, next to Roach? Not so much, anymore, he realized.

As he was slightly inebriated, he simply uttered what came to his mind next.

"Yen, I would gladly eat toast every day, for the rest of my life, if you were the one who made it for me," he began. "And if I knew you would be waiting for me there, I would gladly travel down your Trail of Toast until I found you again," he declared ardently.

The footsteps drew closer…But they stopped short of the door.

"I don't care if you can't cook. I don't care about any of that. You know me. All I care about is you." He leaned his head against the door contritely, the hallway spinning a little bit.

The lock turned noisily and he revived from his momentary stupor. She opened the door a crack and peered out at him.

"You know…"

"What?"

"I can also prepare something other than toast," she stated seriously, peering up at him with all her gorgeous intensity.

"And what would that be?" He leaned against the jamb, admiring her lovingly.

"Tea," she revealed coquettishly.

He played his trump card.

"Perfect. It will go very well with these, then." He raised his right hand to show her a saucer topped with three perfect pastries.

"Oh! Are they…?"

He nodded.

"By Magdala," he completed.

"And you saved a few for _me_? You resisted?" she teased, opening the door wider. "I suppose that _is_ proof of devotion…"

He grinned.

"I had to battle four drunken Gwent players for these."

"How valiant." She tilted her hip and crossed her arms, but a glint of amusement flashed in her eyes.

"You have no idea. I'd willingly lose all my cards, my gold…even my pants, just to get you these!" he asserted passionately.

She finally laughed brightly and hooked her fingers over his belt, yanking him back into the room.


	5. A Tale of Treachery

"The main facts in human life are five: birth, food, sleep, love, and death."

– _E.M. Forster_

* * *

Geralt sat at the quiet tavern table at the crack of dawn, the sky outside still dark. He sipped his strong, dark tea while examining a map that would take him into the fabled Shallows. It was an old map—something he'd talked the innkeeper into lending him. While the village itself was small, the forests around it were dense and bordered Brokilon. There was no saying what creatures roamed that wilderness. By the time he stepped out of the inn, the sleepy village had begun to stir. He decided to make a small detour before heading to the Shallows, however: he sought out Magdala's hut. He'd debated whether to bother her at that ungodly hour, but a soft orange glow from the cracks in the shutters confirmed to him she was already awake.

Magdala greeted him in a sullen silence, turning her back to him as soon as she opened the door and returning to a bowl where she had been busily whisking eggs whites into something foamy and frothy. Her hut was small: almost all of it dedicated to her kitchen.

"What can I do for you?" she asked coolly, avoiding his gaze.

"Last night's kolaczki was incredible."

He observed her for a reaction. She cracked a small grin.

"Yes? Was it better than the other batch of kolaczki?"

_Ah. Interesting. Let's see where this leads._

"Why?"

"Mine're better, aren't they?" She wiped her hands on her apron before casting him an eager stare.

"Different," Geralt stated, leaning against the wall, taking in the homey cabin. The strong odor of cloves clung to the air.

"You mean _better_." Her voice had a warning edge.

"What's the story behind the rivalry between you and the witch?" Geralt asked boldly.

Magdala looked up, blinking in mild confusion.

"Rivalry? What rivalry?"

"Oh, come on! You're going to have to do better than that! You wanted to take out a contract on the witch's life despite the village's objections! Everyone seems to appreciate the witch except for you."

She dropped the bowl on her kitchen worktable crossly.

"These people…They are all fools! Ungrateful an'…stupid!"

"Why is that?"

"That witch: she is evil."

"The villagers say she is harmless…" He tried to sound casual. "Care to tell me what you know?"

"Have you e'er known any witches to be harmless?" she challenged him. "She's dangerous, Witcher. No one believes me, but I know. Mark my words!"

"And you are basing this on what, exactly?" Geralt prodded.

She appeared to be pondering something and seemed unsure as to whether she should proceed.

"Folks around here claim the worst she's done is feed their children too much dessert."

She finally nodded, a fiery glint in her eyes.

"Yes, they say that, the sorry lot." She pointed at herself. "But I know better, I do!"

"Oh? Care to explain?"

"Listen closely: that witch? She's a thief."

"A thief?"

"Aye." She nodded. "She's stolen my recipes. But that's not the worst of it, Witcher. Not by far."

"No?"

"No…Oh, no. That witch…that wretched witch who has charmed everyone is a thief…and a _murderer_ ," she revealed darkly.

* * *

"Slow down. I need you to explain yourself."

They sat next to each other on a rustic wooden bench by the oven.

"Sorry, Witcher. It still upsets me. It always will. Even after you do away with the witch and return my recipe book."

"The witch stole your recipe book?"

"It wasn't just mine, you see," she began.

Geralt tilted his head in slight annoyance.

"How could the witch steal something that wasn't really yours?"

"It was Aniella and my…It was _our_ recipe book: we'd been collecting, adapting, inventing and writing down recipes since we were lassies. Aniella used to hold on to the book because I's got a better memory, you see. I make a recipe once…twice…Then it goes in here," she tapped at her fluffy hair. She then smiled sadly. "I never learned to read and write well, so, remembering things is a necessity for me. But not Aniella. She was very well-bred, me Aniella."

"Tell me more about Aniella. She was…"

"My dearest, beloved friend," Magdala replied wistfully. "Her father was a merchant from Vizima…" She leaned forward and cracked the oven door open. "Not riffraff, they. He was no half-oren peddler. No. They were from the Trade Quarter." She spoke as if she were proud of her friend's pedigree.

"So how did she end up here in Rhuddilain?"

"Her father brought her to her mother's kin after Sodden…There was talk that the Black Ones would invade an' lay waste to Vizima. He packed Aniella off to her gran here. Aniella's mother had been from the village, you see. They met before the Ribbon flooded the valley and washed away the bridge. Traders and merchants would often pass the village on the way to Brugges or Dorian. But after the flood…We's so out of the way—all o' Temeria has no use for us now, so Aniella's father figured, why would the Black Ones?" Magdala seemed lost in old memories. "I still remember the day Aniella arrived here. Such the little lady: pretty clothes, satin slippers, city airs…One look and all the other children laughed and teased her, poor thing. But not I." She peered at Geralt, her eyes brimming with tears. "She and I… We was scampering off to play together before noon." She looked up at him sadly. "And we had always been together, ever since…Until…"

"Until?"

Magdala raked the floor of her hut with her poker.

"It was her father's doing. Once her gran passed, he decided it was time for her to be married off. He sent an escort from Dorian to take her back to Vizima, but she wouldn't go. She'd hide or fool them into returning without her, you see. Because she was happy here. _We_ were happy here. We baked together—we had a dream of runnin' our own bakery, the two of us."

"So what happened?" he asked, guessing at what came next, knowing it would not be pleasant—stories of prepotent fathers imposing their wills on their hapless daughters rarely were.

"Her father finally had enough and came back to the village himself. She didn't want to go and there was yelling, Witcher. Oh, Mother Melitele…the yelling…" She sat back with a haunted expression. "They fought and yelled so that the entire village heard. He even locked her away in her gran's cottage. I was not allowed to see her. I tried many times. He had the door guarded night and day."

In the near distance, a rooster crowed.

"Then early one morning soon after, he burst through my door with armed men looking for her. Searched the entire house. Accused me of talking nonsense into her head. I asked him how is it that a man loses his own grown daughter who'd been locked up right under his nose. He claimed she'd run away, taken his purse o' gold and disappeared. He searched up and down the village. We all did, truth be told. I had no idea where she could have gone all alone. Our hunters went out to track her."

Geralt listened, his head hanging low.

"Did they find anything?"

"Aye," she uttered in a whisper. "Her tracks led far out into the woods and ended by the Shallows." She contemplated him meaningfully. "They found two different tracks and signs of a struggle in the brush…" She took a deep breath. "And on what was the worst day of my life, they brought back the shreds of a badly torn up dress. I'd known it anywhere, Witcher. It was Aniella's. It was all the proof we needed: me Aniella was dead. Lost forever."

Geralt held his silence out of respect for Magdala's grief. Tears rolled down the petite baker's cheeks.

"So why do you think the witch killed her? It might have been something else. We are very close to Brokilon..." he reminded her.

She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand, sniffling loudly.

"Well! It's pretty clear, isn't it? It all makes sense. Just a couple months later, Boris' boy went missing in the woods an' everyone was out o' their minds, afraid that whatever had gotten Aniella would get the child…But then he came back, two days later, looking clean and happy…Came back babbling 'bout some witch who'd fed and sheltered him for the night. She had sent him back with good blessings. 'Good blessings'…" She shook her head. "She sent the boy back with treats! That's all it took to take the fear out of them! It was pączki, too," she stated contemptuously. "My recipe, Witcher! With the rose marmalade that Aniella and I learned to make from the Ofieri!"

"I still don't see…"

"Our recipe book! Aniella must have had it among her belongings when she fled the village!"

Magdala had grown agitated.

"I've told these people time and again that the witch stole my book when she killed Aniella, but they tell me I am stirring trouble, that it isn't possible because she only arrived after, and that she is a good witch that does not hurt the wee ones, and that she is good fortune—to leave her alone. They think I'm just jealous because she's a fine baker herself!"

She eyed him, her eyes fiery and angry.

"I know her secret, Witcher. She does not fool me. I hoped to show her we did not need her, that I knew what she was doing, that she could never surpass me in skill. I hoped the villagers would turn their backs on her. But she is tenacious. Clever. She has them charmed. They bring her goods, they send their children to the Shallows." She grasped his arm. "Find her. Please. Stop her. She mocks me. She is pitting the villagers against me, has them playing favorites. She knows I know and I won't be bribed with her treats like the others. Prove me right! Avenge me Aniella, Witcher!" she pleaded passionately.

* * *

Geralt wandered down the path through the thick woods towards the Shallows. At one point he stood on a hilltop to admire the rugged view of sprawling wilderness. That particular area of Temeria was a strange little corner of the world—a bit forgotten by men and by time, it seemed. He had prepared himself to face an assortment of menaces wandering through the forest, but other than the wind ruffling the treetops and some smaller wildlife, the path was quiet.

While he walked n the general direction of the Ribbon's banks, he remembered an interesting conversation he'd had with his dear friend Regis: they had spoken about a prominent scholar from Oxenfurt, Karl D'Arwen, who had published a provocative tome proposing an interesting theory: that monsters and other creatures were retreating, growing less bold and more skittish as a result of their clash with humans.

"He argues," the vampire explained, "that thanks to the interference of people, such as you witchers, the evolution of various monstrous beings has been affected. The more aggressive and bold specimens tend to get themselves killed and are less likely to spread their traits, while the more timid, less aggressive ones succeed in procreating and passing along more temperate and docile attributes."

Geralt had smirked.

"I don't believe that one bit."

"How many beasts have had their designations changed from 'fauna' to 'legend' thanks to the efforts of witchers, do you suppose?" Regis had challenged him with his characteristic world-weariness and amusement.

 _A few_ , he admitted. He hadn't had an argument to counter that.

He missed his old friend's company. He could sympathize with Magdala in that aspect.

Soon, his boots sank into muddy ground—wet and murky. Ahead there were patches, small pools of muddy water, surrounding islets littered in the low-lying bush and thin, spindly trees. Further off, the Ribbon coursed vigorously.

His medallion vibrated lightly when he crossed into the swamp—not that there was danger lurking nearby, but as an indication that the very land he stood on was…touched. He climbed up another path running along the edge of the swamp. It was an overgrown, unkempt trail, but he noticed the carefully edged border and broken marker post; it had once been a stretch of well-traveled route. His medallion pulsed more vibrantly as he clambered up, the stone steps hewn onto the side of the hill, parallel to the swamp below. He followed the path until he finally found himself walking over smooth slabs of polished stone leading towards an ornate collapsed archway. As Geralt raised his yellow eyes, he noticed long leafy vines winding themselves around the battered remains of what were obviously ancient elven ruins.

"These are very old," he concluded, peering about. As much as he wanted to admire the site, he was also wary of the usual throng of guardians and opportunistic residents that liked to lodge in such isolated refuges. "Intricate stonework." He glided his gloved hand over the artfully carved stone. The roof had collapsed long ago and only a few of the walls remained intact.

"Too small for a temple," he noted.

At the center of the dilapidated room, a tall fountain stood, its deep vasques holding puddles of rain, dry leaves, and an assortment of dead bugs. He crouched, listened carefully, and then grazed the surface of the floor with his fingertips.

"Hm. Interesting. A place of power." He brushed the dirty, stained fountain. "A spring used to course below and was channeled up through the fountain. The elves probably discovered the water conferred some kind of boon: perhaps it had healing properties?"

The spring itself had long run dry, but the energy, the source of power, remained unabated. It was quite strong and radiated far.

"No wonder it's so peaceful here," he realized. "Great place to establish…whatever this once was."

He let his guard down for a moment and admired the modest view from a parapet along the ruin's outlook. Birds perched about, chirping or cawing. They filled the air with sound and movement. Down further, though, between a clearing in the foliage, a ring of smaller, dingy structures caught his attention. Upon further inspection, he was able to discern that what he was looking at was the overhead view of a cluster of small huts in various stages of decay. All…except for one: a solitary cottage from which a thin curl of smoke steadily unraveled.

* * *

As Geralt approached the desolate settlement, he noted that small, well-tended berry bushes grew along the walkway. On another side, a small plot of garden had been shaped into rows covered in plants that had begun to shrivel in the cool fall air. It was an indication of a bountiful season, nevertheless.

_Must be the witch's cottage._

He wandered closer, stealthily. His medallion would be useless in alerting him about crossing and triggering any wards due to the interference of energy contained in the nearby elven ruin. He quietly crept along the back of the hut and halted before one of the shuttered windows.

He heard footsteps inside: heavy, dragging. His memory flashed back to the tracks he'd found at the village: whoever had made them had a pronounced limp. He could also make out some humming—a croaky, husky drone. He readied himself as the footsteps gradually approached the window. His hand slowly reached over his shoulder, prepared to whisk out his silver blade.

A pair of shutters flew open and it was in that compromising stance that he came face to face with a pair of very white, beady eyes, framed by long, stringy black hair.

_A water hag._

The hag had a tall, hunched over frame and characteristically rough, almost reptilian skin. He drew his silver sword deftly, ready to battle the creature.

Curiously, though, when the creature saw him lunge towards the window, instead of charging him, ready to rip him to pieces, she mournfully covered her face with large, grotesque hands and began to sob pitifully.

"Oh! Oh! Will my miseries never end?"

He balked, confused.

He'd never known a water hag to lament her fate so mournfully.

Also, upon more careful inspection, he had to admit he had never known water hags to wear cotton blouses and skirts embroidered with bright red and yellow poppies.

He sheathed his sword, heaving a heavy sigh.


	6. Tea for Two

"Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon, or not at all."

– _Harriet Van Horne  
_

* * *

"All right, all right," he stated reassuringly. "Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you."

 _Not yet, anyway,_ he decided.

The hag huffed and wiped the tears off her rough, leathery face.

"Are you the Witch of the Shallows?"

She appeared to revive at the mention of the title.

"Aye! I am oft known as that."

"I see. But you're no witch, are you?"

"Yes, I know that. It is a long story. But the children… I'm so ugly and old now, you see; there's little difference between witch and hag to them," she explained matter-of-factually. They stared at each other awkwardly—he from the outside, she from the inside. "Would you like to come in? I just put a kettle on the fire and I have some cake."

"Cake?" Geralt's eyes narrowed.

"Aye!" she confirmed with a terrifying grin that bared her sharp teeth. "It's babka, actually. Cinnamon. You like babka?"

"If I come in, can we talk?"

"Of course! It'll be nice to have a grown-up conversation for a change. I do enjoy hearing the wee ones prattle on, but there are only so many 'What did the goat say?' jokes out there," she continued cheerfully, hurrying off to open the front door for him.

As he entered the cottage, he noticed everything was tidy and orderly. Hags' lairs tended to be littered with bones and the scattered belongings of their victims. They hoarded everything: trophies from the living and the dead. He was inside an old, deteriorating cottage, but it had been lovingly tended. The floors were swept, shelves dusted, and a small stack of linens lay folded in a chair ready to be stashed away. A tray with freshly glazed babka sat on the kitchen table. A vase filled with wild flowers adorned the center. Beside it sat a large book with florid, tidy handwriting.

 _And there's Magdala and Aniella's cookbook_ , he guessed.

* * *

The babka was a dream: it tore apart easily and fragrantly, and the swirls of spiced gooey cinnamon dissolved in his mouth.

"Well?" she asked excitedly, rubbing her hands together.

"This is amazing." He smacked his lips together in sheer enjoyment.

She smiled. It was a bit horrifying when she did, but he could see she was very pleased with his reaction to her baking.

"It is, isn't it? Ah! It was a harder recipe to master because it's so easy to dry out the cake or to overwhelm it with cinnamon…"

It was a little surreal, he found, to be sitting in a chair drinking tea and eating a slice of freshly baked babka with a water hag.

Except he was certain that was no ordinary water hag.

"When you return to the village, would you kindly do me a favor?"

"What would that be?"

"Take this back," she indicated, pointing at a second babka cooling off on a shelf by the window. "And give it to the villagers?"

"I can do that," he agreed. "Anything else?"

"Some of the villagers like to leave me thank you notes on the notice board. If you were so inclined…" she asked modestly, lowering her milky white eyes.

"Should I bring Magdala a slice, too?" he provoked.

The hag sat back, her arms crossed. He recognized it for a sulking gesture, despite the menacing figure she cut.

"That Magdala! Say her name in my presence no more, Witcher! That evil, wretched, two-faced person, that traitor…that _cheat_!" she growled.

_I think I know what's going on here._

Geralt leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands, satisfied.

"So tell me: how did you turn into a water hag, Aniella?"

* * *

"It was late in the evening. My father and I had just finished having a row. We had been having them every night…But that night was the worse, Witcher. He was the angriest I had ever seen. He slammed the door, locked me in, and left cursing…"

"Wait. Go back: what kind of cursing?" Geralt interrupted, as he struggled to make sense of the strange situation.

"Oh, you know: of the 'I'll be a whorseson! Why couldn't I have had a lad instead?' variety. That kind of cursing," she clarified. "Anyway, I knew I had to do something before he returned. My gran's house had a cellar beneath the floorboards that led to the yard. She seldom used it; the trapdoor was kept shut beneath an old rug, but I used it to sneak out that night."

"I see." He dunked a piece of his babka into the large mug of hot tea.

"I waited until all was quiet and I dashed for the village gate. I didn't know where to go, but I had my most valuable belongings and managed to pilfer one of my father's gold coin pouches. I hid in the forest, by the path close to the old ruins- it was so cold and dark that night—who ever knew night could be so black?— and I was quite scared."

"Why didn't you reach out to Magdala for help? I thought you were good friends back then?"

"I certainly thought we were!" she declared indignantly. He found it rather comical that the water hag held a teacup and saucer so daintily in her claw-like hands. "But I learned the truth…I discovered how little our friendship meant to her. She was my undoing, Witcher." The hag sighed, a deep rumbling noise. "I had to run away because of her," she revealed.

"What was different about that fight with your father?"

"I was engaged to be married but I didn't want to get married, you see. I had told my father again and again that I preferred to stay here and start a bakery with Magdala. I hoped that if I could convince him that I could fend for and look after myself, he would be less worried about marrying me off."

"But obviously that didn't go over well."

"You think?" She gestured at herself. "Not at all. Not at all…" she lamented. "On the night I escaped, we had argued about Magdala. He told me she had made a 'disturbing' accusation against me and that he'd bribed her with enough gold for her to start her own bakery in exchange for her silence. He said she had taken it. Oh, Witcher. I was betrayed. Scorned... Sold off for a few bits of gold. I couldn't believe she would do such a thing to me. I felt…" She paused, struggling to find the words. "Gutted."

Geralt noticed the hag had raised her arm to her face and was wiping her eyes over her blouse sleeves.

"So many years, so many dreams…An old friendship… All traded in for gold. I didn't imagine she disliked me so much, Witcher. I never said anything to upset her; I never asked for much. As long as I could be by her side, I was happy—I would never ask for more than what we already had. I thought it would be all right."

Geralt thought he was beginning to understand something delicate and important about the situation. He needed to prod a bit more to confirm it.

"Aniella, if you were so disappointed with Magdala after your father's revelation…Why didn't you just agree to return to Vizima with him? People in the village thought your father had arranged an advantageous match. You would have been well off and far away from everything."

"Oh, I am sure it was an advantageous match," she concurred. "But I couldn't do it."

"You wouldn't be the first bride to object to an arranged marriage," Geralt offered sympathetically.

"The arranged marriage wasn't really the issue."

"No?" Geralt tried not to appear too eager.

"It was the man," she confided.

"The man?"

"Yes. I couldn't wed him. I couldn't wed _any_ man, for that matter."

Geralt held still.

"And why is that?"

The hag chuckled.

"Can you keep a secret, Witcher? Between what folk consider one weirdling to another?"

He eyed her warily.

"It depends."

"I'll tell you. It's because of this, Witcher: I don't like lads. Never have. I fancy the lasses," she admitted. "Or rather… _a_ certain lass," she stated wistfully, looking away.

Was all that over unrequited love? He recalled Magdala's passionate plea back in the village: that he avenge "her" Aniella. He recalled the humble little kitchen she struggled to operate a bakery from. Something was not adding up.

"So after you escaped, you hid in the forest," he urged her onwards after a moment. "What happened?"

"I found shelter by the ruins off on the road…The same road that brought you down here. I was upset, feeling mighty sorry for myself, wondering where to go next…And then… I heard them."

"Heard whom?"

"The dogs. Barking in the near distance. I realized my father had set hunters on my trail."

"What did you do then?"

"Where could I hide, Witcher? Look around. I could not hope to outrun the dogs. I just tried my best to hide in the bushes, along the ruin's outer wall, crouching, hoping that by some miracle they would pass me right by…And suddenly, before I understood what was happening, I began to take ill: I started…growing, I was becoming larger and even burst right out of my dress. I barely had time to escape before the hunters arrived. I scurried down here, to this abandoned fishing settlement. The huts were washed out and abandoned years ago when the Ribbon surged over the valley. I've been here ever since."

"How have you managed to survive, all alone?" he wondered, taking in the orderly cottage. A few sacks of flour, sugar, and bowl of fresh eggs near a pitcher of water indicated that she had provisions.

"I'm the village witch!" she explained, with a twinkle in her cloudy eyes. "I managed to salvage many things from the abandoned huts here—I was even able to fashion myself some clothes." She raised her arms to better model her coarse cotton blouse. "But there was nothing to bake with for a while. I lucked out one afternoon, though: an Ofieri trading party came down the path. They were obviously lost, but I thought I'd try to bargain for a few supplies with them before pointing them in the right direction—I took my coin pouch and set off to meet them."

"And how did that go?"

"Heh! One look at me and they dropped everything and ran off screaming," she muttered peevishly. "But they abandoned enough goods behind for me to make my first batch of pączki."

"And that helped?"

"I only did it because it was supposed to make me feel a little bit better. I like to cook when I am upset. It distracts my mind, calms my nerves. But then Boris' son got lost one night. I heard him wailing in the bog here, alone in the dark. He's such a little one— a bit daft. Not his fault, poor dear. I brought him in for the night—he was so very frightened… But this is the nice thing about the little ones, witcher: they can get over the way you look if you treat them well. They don't know any better, bless them. I dried his tears and fed him and tucked him in for the night. He'd hurt his foot, so I kept him for another day. We had a nice chat and I sent him home afterwards, with half my batch of pączki as a peace offering, to make up a bit for his parents' enormous worry. I suppose that's where it all began. The villagers caught wind of it and they liked my baking; soon enough, more little ones started 'getting lost' and coming down this way…And they have been, ever since. They often bring me things for my larder: eggs, fresh milk, flour…and so on, so that I never want for much. In exchange, I send the children back with treats. I think they believe it's a good augur? A blessing of sorts? It certainly is, for me, Witcher." She exhaled heavily. "Except that Magdala is hell bent on turning the village against me!"

"I don't think she has any idea you are alive; she thinks you really are a witch—" Geralt tried to explain.

"Nonsense! If anyone would recognize my baking it would be that no-good former friend of mine! She must know. She must recognize the recipes!"

Geralt rubbed his chin contemplating Aniella.

"Tell me something… And this is very important: do you remember what you were thinking of right before you transformed into a water hag?"

She blinked and then peered off into the distance, searching her memory.

"I suppose…I was scared. I didn't want to go home…I didn't want to get married…I was hurt because of Magdala's betrayal…"

"Need something more specific…Try to remember. Did you…I don't know…Make a wish of sorts?"

She grimaced but then furrowed her pocked brow.

"Now that you mention it…I suppose I did! I remember I was huddled up in a corner of the ruins and all I could think of was how much I wanted to be left alone, how much I wished my father and the hunters would go away…If only they feared me as much as I feared them and left me alone…"

"That's when it happened, isn't it?"

"I think so," she mused. "It all happened so fast. Perhaps it was punishment for running away?"

"Let me ask you this: you said you wanted them to fear you…What is the most fearsome creature, in your opinion?"

She paused at his question.

"A water hag," she declared slowly, realization beginning to dawn upon her. "Saw one when I traveled with my father from Vizima a long time ago. She attacked our caravan as we were crossing a bridge one night. Everyone scattered in panic. Most horrid sight it was. She managed to capture and drag a man back down into the swamp with her. A few guardsmen went searching for the poor soul, but they found nothing. Not even the remains. I never forgot it." She shuddered.

 _And there it was_ , Geralt understood excitedly.

"Aniella, I don't know if you realize it, but you cursed yourself."

"What?"

"You basically wished yourself turned into a water hag."

She remained in stunned silence.

"Did I? Oh, dear," she finally said.

* * *

"I need to confer with someone who can help me figure out how to break this curse," he reassured her as she nodded hopefully, handing him the wrapped up babka. "I promise we'll be back soon."

"Yes, yes! Good! And when you return, I'll have some fresh pierniczki," she promised, calling out after him as he took the path back towards the village.

Geralt almost told her not to worry about it, but he quickly decided to say nothing.

She was, after all, an excellent baker.


	7. Their Just Desserts

"In cooking—as in business and war—hope for the best but plan for the worst."  
― Timothy Ferriss

* * *

Back at the village, Yennefer listened to Geralt attentively, interrupting only to seek clarification or to request greater detail.

"It is curious…The transformation could have happened for several reasons: the ruins themselves have accumulated power that has gone untapped for too long, or perhaps this Aniella has some latent magic of her own…It could also be a combination of both latent magic in the ruins and in Aniella. I'll have to inspect the ruins for any clues myself." She fetched her cloak.

"The one thing I am certain is that the spell is more than a glamour," Geralt pondered. "I could have tried a few things to lift the curse, but I'm worried Aniella wouldn't survive. Or perhaps I'd doom her to remaining as a water hag forever."

"No, that was wise, Geralt. We don't know if it's really a curse, a spell gone awry, or something else," she concluded, adjusting her cloak's clasp. "Let's go—are you ready?" she asked, waiting by the doorway.

"I am."

"Then what are we waiting for?" she puzzled, noticing he was not following her.

"I think there is someone else we need to take with us."

"Who?"

"Magdala."

Yen smirked.

"I believe your duties require that you merely lift the curse. What exactly are you hoping to accomplish here?"

Geralt said nothing.

"Besides, according to Aniella, Magdala betrayed her."

"That's just it, Yen! Something doesn't make sense!"

"Of course it does. Someone is lying, obviously. The question is: which one?"

"I don't think so. They are both telling the truth. I just know it."

An expression of surprise crossed Yen's face.

"I see!...You'd like them to sort it out." She grinned. "Aren't you a meddlesome Witcher!"

He exhaled impatiently.

"Come on. Let's go get Magdala."

* * *

"You actually _saw_ the witch?" Magdala asked incredulously as Geralt and Yen stood in her modest hut. "No one dares to bother her but the children …Folk say she's as ugly as sin!"

"I not only saw her, I also spoke to her."

Yen nodded, encouraging him.

"You should come with us," Geralt suggested.

"Me?" Magdala cried, stupefied. "Whatever for? Aren't you the Witcher? Do us all a favor and rid us of that abomination."

"I think you will feel differently once you meet her."

Magdala's gaze went from Geralt to Yen and back. She rubbed her face tiredly.

"Aaach! You've been fooled. Like the others. Just like ev'ryone else around here!"

"Trust me: it's not what you are thinking," Geralt cautioned.

"And how do you know what I think?" she protested. "I told you already! What'll it take for someone to do something about this? Aren't you Witchers sworn to do away with monsters?"

"Magdala, you have to listen to me: the Witch of the Shallows did not kill Aniella."

"Oh, really?" Magdala poised her hands on her hips defiantly. "She told you that and you took her for her word?" Her lip curled into a snarl. "Bollocks!"

"That's not what she told me," Geralt replied, his patience starting to strain. "She told me something else."

"And what was that?" she challenged him.

"That she is Aniella."

Magdala gasped right before she collapsed.

* * *

"You could have handled that entire conversation better, you know," Yen muttered to him as they set off through the brush towards the Shallows.

Following them was a dumbstricken and dazed Magdala. The young woman shuffled at a halting pace, occasionally raising her hand to rub her arm.

"You gave her quite a shock." She peered at Magdala over her shoulder. "I don't think she believes you." Yen told him. "You are in over your head right now, you know." She extended her hand and tickled him lightly behind the ear. "My sentimental Witcher."

"I thought you liked that about me." Geralt lightly swatted her hand away as they cut through some bushes.

Yen eyed him slyly and said nothing else. They walked for a while down the path until they reached a fork in the road. One led down, towards the swamp, while the other snaked up the hill.

"The ruins are that way," Yen guessed looking up at the steps carved in the stone. "Quite powerful. I can sense the magic from here."

"Do you want to see the ruins right now or should we go get Aniella first—"

A slightly out-of-breath Magdala caught up to them.

"That ugly monster is not me Aniella!"

"You know, she's not very pleased with you either!" Geralt finally snapped. "Seems like _you_ weren't a very loyal friend after all!"

Magdala blanched.

"What in Melitele's name are you talking about?"

Yen raised an eyebrow and suppressed a grin. She cleared her throat before stepping towards the path leading upwards.

"I will examine the ruins and meet you back at the settlement later."

Geralt frowned.

"What? You're leaving? Now?"

_Can't believe she is going to leave me with two squabbling women._

He could almost hear her taunt: _You brought this upon yourself… Don't expect me to fix it._

"Lies!" Magdala shouted. "Can't you see? That witch lies!"

Geralt's resentful gaze trailed after Yen's shapely figure up as she walked to the ruins.

"Thanks a lot," he muttered under his breath.

He faced Magdala and gestured for her to follow him.

"All right," he stated sternly. "Let's get this over with!"

* * *

Magdala fell silent once they approached the small decrepit hut. She was visibly frightened and hid behind Geralt when he rapped on the door.

"Is that you, Witcher?" the gruff voice inside asked.

"That's not Aniella's voice. I think I'd know her voice!" she whispered angrily at him.

"I hope you don't mind, but I brought you a visitor," Geralt announced.

"Oh! Oh! How perfectly lovely to have visitors after so long! Have you brought the one you mentioned who can help me break this curse?" the hag asked eagerly, flinging the door wide open. Seeing no one but Geralt, she peered at him, confused.

"Not exactly…" he began. "I suspect the curse isn't the only thing that needs to be addressed here." He stepped aside.

Upon sighting each other, both the hag and the woman screamed.

He was willing to bet both his swords that wherever in the ruins she was right then, Yen was chuckling at the sounds of the commotion below.

"What…What's this!" Magdala bellowed, pointing at Aniella. "This isn't even a proper witch! Can't you tell this is an ordinary water hag?" she provoked.

"How dare you!" the water hag growled. "Not only do you have the gall to show up at my house uninvited, you also insult me!" The water hag raised her finger in the air indignantly.

"I'll do more than that!" Magdala threatened. "MURDERER!" she shouted, brandishing a paring knife she'd plucked from the depths of her apron pocket.

Geralt's arms shot out to grab and detain the incensed baker while the hag stumbled back, horrified.

"See? She tried to kill me, Witcher! You're a witness!"

"I seek justice!" Magdala cried. "You killed me Aniella!"

"You lying cheat! What a quaint little act!" Aniella roared back, pointing a talon at her. "I'm not _your_ anything!"

"Good! On that we agree, at least! You're as mad as a March hare! Always with the 'cheater' bit!" She struggled against Geralt 's restraining arms. "I have no idea what this barmy beast is raving about!"

"Let me refresh your memory! My father paid you some hefty coin to betray me! How are the plans for your bakery, you cheat!" the hag accused.

Magdala stopped trying to wriggle free.

"Bakery?"

"Yes! My father told me all about it on the night I ran away!" she accused sharply, turning her back to them in a huff. "He said you gleefully accepted the gold in exchange for giving up on our plans, on our dreams…on me!"

Magdala stared in stupefaction.

"How could you know?...Aniella?…Is it really you? Could it be?"

The hag sulked.

"Who told you that?" Magdala demanded. "Who told you such a thing?"

"Who else? My father himself! He also said you told him something terrible about me! And that whatever you told him meant I had to be married off right away," the hag's voice cracked. "He said what you revealed to him was _disgusting_. And here I thought I knew you better than that!"

Magdala appeared crestfallen.

"It's true your father came to see me that night…He came in accusing me of filling your head with nonsense, of being a bad influence on you. He said you were not meant to do menial labor and I was standing in the way of a better future for you."

Geralt let Magdala go but took the paring knife from her. She didn't seem to notice, though; she was so engrossed in the conversation.

"But…I told him…I told him only you could decide on your future. And I told him we had plans and that we would achieve them even without his gold. Because… We were that good. And I believed in us."

The hag turned her head to the side and peered at her suspiciously out of the corner of her milky eyes.

"You didn't take his gold? But he came home complaining you had cost him a pretty penny."

"Of course I didn't!" Magdala continued, a hurt look in her eyes. "I turned him out of my hut! Why would you ever believe otherwise? Look at me! Witcher, tell her! I have no bakery! I am still working at the mill and the tavern for a miserly fee! "

The hag turned around slowly and the two contemplated each other in earnest for the first time.

"I thought you were dead, Aniella!" Magdala chided her sadly. "Why did you run off like that? You did not even give me the benefit of the doubt!"

The hag turned her head away again sheepishly.

"I didn't think my father would lie to me like that."

"Ooo, I see! The man casts you off as soon as he is widowed and then rushes to marry you off as soon as your gran dies…But I—your best, closest friend—am the one you mistrust!"

"I had good reason to be hurt," Aniella protested.

"And all this time you were hidden here…Baking all our recipes for the villagers, no less!" Magdala continued.

"You recognized them?"

"How could I not?"

"Look at me," Aniella stated flatly. "I couldn't exactly walk into the village and announce that I was alive now, could I? Who would believe it? Even you didn't want to believe it! Besides, I was very angry at you."

"Your father was to blame! He kept telling me I was standing between you and a proper future," Magdala remembered.

"Well, you must have said something to make him so furious," Aniella concluded. "He kept wagging his finger at me and saying he 'knew everything' that you had 'revealed the truth.'"

"Knew what?" Magdala wondered.

"Whatever you told him."

Geralt nodded, pressing his lips.

_Good. Now we're getting somewhere_.

"What did you say to my father that night that made him fall upon me like a storm?"

It was Magdala's turn to look down, contritely.

"I may have said something I shouldn't have."

"You did?"

"Aye. But I couldn't help myself! Aniella, he kept telling me about your groom-to-be. He kept saying how he was so this and that and how he had his own shop in Vizima and how you would be among the most important wives in the merchants' guild. I couldn't take it anymore. I…I snapped. I told him he should let you stay with me. That we were happy together. And that I'd…" she halted before taking a deep breath. "I'd take care of you better than any man could."

The hag whirled around, astonishment on her grim face.

"Magdala!"

"I'm sorry, Aniella. I…I couldn't help myself. That whole engagement foolishness had just been eating away at me! I was terribly jealous…I didn't even ask you first—I didn't even know if you felt the same way. Oh, Mother Melitele…Was I the reason things got so bad?" She raised her hands to her cheeks.

"No, no…" Aniella said quietly. "I think I struck the final blow. You see, I told him I would never, ever marry that man. In fact, I told him…I wouldn't marry any man…"

Magdala peered up at the hag, stupefied.

"Because my heart already belonged to another."

"Who?" Magdala cried.

"You," Aniella added, almost shyly.

"Aniella!" Magdala rushed towards the hag and threw her arms around the large torso.

Geralt watched the strangely heartwarming scene.

"What's this? I believe you're smiling," a voice whispered close to his ear.

He startled as Yen emerged beside him—a smug grin on her lips. He was about to reply when they were both surprised by a piercing wail.

"Oh, Magdala! But it's too late now! I am cursed and stuck in this grotesque shape!" she lamented, covering her face with her hands. "How can you even stand looking at me?"

Geralt was about to interrupt to inform them there was a strong likelihood the curse could be broken, but Yen touched his arm gently. She peered at the duo as if urging him to wait a moment.

"What are you saying, dearest! You're alive!" Magdala stated between tears. "You're alive! That's all that matters to me! It's my wildest, most fervent wish come true! I've longed for you every single day since you left! I don't care if you are a water hag! You are still you and that's all I could ever hope for!"

It was a very peculiar sight, Geralt thought: a large water hag and a petite woman embracing, their foreheads touching while they held each other, smiling between their tears.

_Peculiar…and touching._

Yen stepped away from the hut.

"Geralt, let them have a moment alone and come with me back to the ruins."

"What's wrong?"

"I need your help."

He leaned past the doorway and addressed the two women.

"I want you both to wait here for me. I'll be back soon," he reassured them. Not that they were minding him too much just then.

As he walked in her direction, Yen glanced towards the hill.

"I hope you sharpened your silver blade."

* * *

An eerie silence hung about the ruin as they reached the landing. He moved ahead, gesturing to Yen that she should stay back. He continued moving forward, engaging his finely honed senses. He glimpsed a silvery glint on one of the balustrades. He squinted, picking up on the fumes the silvery slime was giving off.

To anyone else but a Witcher the faint rustling sound he discerned next would not have been noteworthy. Anyone else would have reasonably attributed it to a passing breeze. Geralt's eyes caught a glimpse of a shadowy shape ducking behind a wall. He noticed its mottled, grey skin, and distended spidery limbs.

_Could it be?_

Without a second thought, he reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a small flask. He cracked it open while surveying the surroundings.

"Geralt?"

He drank the flask's bitter contents and felt a familiar poisonous rush course through him.

"Yen, stay outside the ruins no matter what you hear me say during combat, understood?" He tossed the flask to the ground.

"Understood."

He gripped his sword tightly.

"Geralt?" she called out again.

He did not move. The creature was peering back at him.

"What?" he muttered.

"Be careful," she said gently, retreating from the ruin.

* * *

Geralt yanked his blade out of the hideous monster sprawled across the ruin's steps and prodded the corpse with the tip of his boot to ensure the creature was good and dead. Its face was contorted in a menacing sneer even in death.

"What was that thing?" Yen asked, rejoining him by the toppled fountain on the cracked stone dais.

"A wÿskan." He retrieved his dagger and knelt before it. "Rare. Haven't run into one in a very long time." He rolled his aching shoulder back a few times. The creature had struck him hard before succumbing to its wounds.

"What does it do and why were you so vehement that I remain outside the ruins during the fight? I could have helped," she chided him as she summoned a glowing ball of energy over her palm. She placed her splayed hand over his shoulder, allowing the energy to flow over the bruised area. After the initial burst of pain, pleasant warmth radiated over his sore muscles. She ran her hand over his shoulder for a few minutes soothing the pain.

"Wÿskans are stealthy. They are attuned to strong emotions and emit a psychotropic poison to disorient their victims. Fortunately, I had some Golden Oriole, or I would have been doing battle under I don't know what bizarre hallucinations." He indicated the empty flask that had rolled off into a corner. He contemplated the corpse and began calculating where he would be making his incisions.

"Psychotropic?" Yen crouched over the body. She examined it, tentatively reaching out to prod its nose.

"Don't!" he warned sharply. "The toxin it emits is not venomous, but it can be inhaled and doesn't deteriorate right away. I need to dispose of it properly." A quick glance down at his hands revealed what he already suspected: he probably cut quite a ghastly figure at that moment, the effects of Golden Oriole still coursing through him, making his veins strain against his skin more prominently, casting a sallow pall over him, and turning his eyes dark and opaque.

Yen rose and paced pensively around the ruin while he worked on cutting off different bits from the creature.

"I think I know how Aniella became a hag." Yen stopped before the fountain.

"If you are blaming the wÿskan, allow me to speak for him." Geralt shook the freshly extracted tongue at her. "His poison is responsible for triggering delusions…not physical transformations."

"Yes, but the markings I was able to make out indicate that this ruin is an old _aevon haela bloed_."

He let his hand drop mid incision.

"What? Here? We're not even that close to the river."

Yen contemplated the surroundings.

"No, perhaps not now…But many years ago, we would have been."

Geralt thought about it for a moment. He remembered both Magdala and Aniella mentioning how the Ribbon had flooded the valley years ago. The Shallows were bogs, after all…Perhaps they had once been a proper riverbed? _Aevon haela bloed_ roughly translated to _river's healing blood._

"All right. Let's say this is an _aevon haela bloed_ : a place of elemental power. It's not enough to wreak such havoc on Aniella."

Yen grinned knowingly.

"You are right…Not all on its own, it isn't. Remember that the effectiveness of a _haela bloed_ is commensurate with the depth of a supplicant's belief in its powers. It can promote shifts in physiology only if those processes are initiated and facilitated by the host."

"Hmm." It was a damn plausible explanation. "You're talking about good old faith?"

"Don't undermine it. Magic is a manipulation of nature's rules to execute a caster's will and faith is perhaps the closest thing to magic ordinary folk can muster. And like most magic, it only works if the one employing it surrenders to its suggestion completely. There are many records of remarkable cures and boons achieved at places such as these. In Aniella's case, I suspect the wÿskan had more than a little to do with aiding her faith," she insisted.

Geralt was about to retort when he remembered Aniella's account of the fateful night: _…_ _all I could think of was how much I wanted to be left alone, how much I wished they would go away…If only they feared me as much as I feared them and left me alone…"_

It was likely that Aniella had lured the wÿskan out of hiding. The creatures were notoriously elusive and wary of humans, but they were excited by strong emotions and attacks were not entirely uncommon. His proximity had likely led to her inhaling the toxin that emanated from his skin and she had fallen under the illusion she had turned into the one frightening thing she had been thinking about: a water hag…That visual perception must have led to the unwavering belief that she had in fact turned into a water hag…and the power emanating from the a _evon haela bloed_ triggered the change physiologically.

"The wÿskan probably got a nasty surprise once he saw his intended victim turned into an actual water hag," Geralt chuckled, casting igni over the monster's carcass.

"I couldn't care less about his distress." Geralt saw the reflection of the flames in her limpid eyes.

"So," he asked, crossing his arms and resting against a column as the corpse burned, "Any thoughts on how to break this curse?" He watched carefully, making sure they both remained away from the miasmic smoke.

"Use your brain."

"There's no need for that attitude." He tilted his head back tiredly.

Yen shook her head.

"Geralt, I meant that literally: take some of the creature's brain and we'll make it into a decoction."

He furrowed his brow.

"But that won't cure her of an illusion. It won't cure her of anything at all—besides, heat breaks down the toxins and—"

"Look, bringing Aniella here and telling her to have faith that she will turn back into a human is unlikely to work. We need to give her something she will not doubt: we will be preparing her a decoction in water taken from the _haela bloed,"_ she explained pointedly.

He blinked a few times. _Clever_. If Aniella believed the curse was being broken while sipping water from the _haela bloed,_ she would will the transformation into motion once more. The enchanted water would ensure that the change occurred physically, as well.

_Except for one problem_ , he realized, peering at the dashed fountain.

"That fountain has been dry for ages. Where do we get enchanted water?"

"The energy still emanates from below. You just need to have it concentrate on…" She examined him. "Your water canteen!" she decided. "Infuse the water!"

As the flames died out and the charred remains sat in a heap, Yen steered him towards the dais where the fountain had once stood. They could both sense it was where the energy was the most concentrated.

"Go draw power from it," she ordered, stepping aside and observing him unsling the canteen from around his torso.

"Why do I feel like some kind of lab rat right now?" he grumbled, kneeling and clasping his canteen to his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wÿscan" is Old English for the word "wish." I thought it worked well as an (adapted) name for a tricky beast that provokes hallucinations and illusions.


	8. Faith

"The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking you've got to have a what-the-hell attitude."  
― Julia Child

* * *

The four of them crowded around a bubbling pot as a pungent, gamey odor permeated the room. Geralt had managed to slice the thinnest sliver of the creature's brain that he could spare—he needed the rest to concoct oils and a valuable and useful infusion. Despite the overpowering odor, he was feeling more revived after channeling some of the energy at the ruins. He noticed his coloring had returned to normal and his muscles no longer felt tight.

"Now, set it aside to cool off," Yen advised, as the hag grabbed a tea towel and lifted the pot off the fire.

A slab of stone acted as a trivet. Steam streamed from the brew steadily.

"Will it really work?" Aniella stared at the viscous bubbles erupting over the murky surface.

"Yes," Yen stated resolutely. "You can believe it."

A malodorous cloud hung over the pot. It reeked.

 _Alcohol has a way of tempering all these bad odors. Boiled water only helps release them,_ Geralt noted grouchily, shifting in his chair as the stench overwhelmed his sensitive sense of smell. _  
_

"Aniella," Magdala began slowly, seizing the water hag's large, mangled hand. "I just want you to know: even if it doesn't work…I won't leave you."

The hag gazed down at Magdala with her sorrowful foggy eyes.

"I would understand it if you didn't want to stay."

"Hush!" Magdala chided her tenderly. "Either way, it'll be all right. I'm not losing you ever again!" She squeezed Aniella's hand tightly, even though it practically engulfed hers.

After a small while, Yen approached the pot. She dipped the ladle into it and scraped the edges, stirring the slimy mixture.

"It's ready. You should drink this while it's hot." She filled the ladle. "Bring me a cup."

Aniella reached for a plain earthenware cup on the shelf behind her. They all watched her nervously and expectantly. She raised the cup to her lips, but set it down after a few seconds of indecision.

"You know, all of you staring at me is only making me more nervous. How about you all join me with tea and we share some pierniczki!" She hobbled over to a covered up dish and, setting it on the table, unveiled a platter of gingerbread cookies.

Geralt almost laughed when he saw Yen's delighted expression. It was charmingly unguarded.

"If you think that'll help, we'll oblige," she offered immediately, sitting at the table.

Aniella did not have to ask twice.

* * *

"Right before you take a sip, think of how you were before the curse…" Yen instructed her, brushing a few fine crumbs off her fingers. "It's very important that you visualize the way you were."

Geralt took stock of the scene: the three of them sat around a rickety table quaintly set with an assortment of cracked and chipped plates as the large water hag sat at the head of the table, clutching a small earthenware cup.

_I don't think even you could come up with such a strange scenario, Dandelion—not even if you were drunk off your arse._

The hag sniffed at her cup and grimaced a bit. Magdala patted her arm reassuringly.

"Well…Here goes!" Aniella blinked nervously before tipping back her cup.

* * *

The hag writhed violently on the ground. Her large limbs crashed against the kitchen chair and the table causing a commotion.

"Give her space!" Yen cautioned them, standing over her.

"What 's happening?" Magdala cried in a panic.

Geralt cast Yen an alarmed look. Something was wrong. The mixture should have either worked or simply failed. That terrible spectacle was not normal.

"She's stuck between states," Yen warned him. "She _wants_ to transform but a part of her doubts she _can_."

He frowned.

_Dangerous. Very dangerous._

The changes in her body had been triggered, but without that decisive certainty, that unwavering faith, Aniella lingered vacillatingly, in flux between her human and her water hag shapes. If Aniella failed to break out of that nowhere state between human and water hag, it was certain she would die—the physiology of one could not live in harmony with the other. Not physically, at least. A stronger emotion, a stronger thought could help her in either direction, he realized.

"Magdala, is there anything you can say to her? Anything to encourage her?" Geralt called out.

"Yes!" Yen signaled her closer to the huddled figure grunting feverishly.

Magdala approached the fitful hag, fresh tears staining her cheeks.

"Say something!" Yen urged her.

"Oh, dearest!" Magdala managed to utter, her voice breaking. "Be whatever you wish—but please don't leave me again: I love you with all my heart."

Yen and Geralt stared worriedly at the agonizing hag to see what would happen next.


	9. Sweetness

**Sweetness**

"A good cook is like a sorceress who dispenses happiness."

\- Elsa Schiaparelli

* * *

Aniella sat up looking frail and wan. The clothes she'd donned as a hag hung around her limply as she pushed herself off the ground. Geralt considerately averted his gaze, even turning his back while Yen and Magdala rushed to help her off the floor. He had caught a glimpse of Aniella—the true Aniella: a short, slightly plump young woman, with silken brown hair, round cheeks, and eyes as blue as a robin's egg.

He turned around again once she was wrapped snugly in a blanket. She sat on her sleeping pallet looking about the room dazedly. They made her drink fresh water while Yen examined her eyes and took her pulse.

"How do you feel?" Yen asked at last.

"Strange," Aniella revealed, the baffled look on her face softening once Magdala, who remained steadfastly beside her, came into focus. "Funny!" she snorted. "I thought the cottage was much smaller than this," she remarked.

"Aniella!" Magdala exhaled with relief, embracing her tightly. "It's over! This long nightmare is finally over!" she cheered. She ran her hands over her beloved's face tenderly. "Let's leave this place, Aniella. Let's go home."

Aniella smiled warmly.

"Yes: take me home. Our home. I never want us to part again."

The two hugged joyfully once more.

Geralt realized he was staring at them with what was likely an expression somewhere between benevolence and idiocy when he felt Yen's hand slip into his.

"Who knew you were such a softhearted Witcher?" she joked, sniffling slightly.

Anyone other than a Witcher wouldn't have made much of that sniffle. It was a chilly evening, after all. But he had seen it for what it was. And the revelation made him grin.

"Mm-hm. Apparently, I am not the only sentimental fool here," he leaned over to whisper affectionately in her ear, inhaling her delightful perfume of lilacs and gooseberries.

* * *

When they emerged from the forest that evening, there was a village-wide commotion. Overjoyed villagers crowded the two women, reaching out to embrace and touch Aniella, to ascertain that she was, in fact, alive. And real. The two women fielded questions issued at them in rapid fire; their answers only triggered more questions. Geralt, Yen, Aniella, and Magdala had agreed beforehand that the best version of the story was that Aniella had inadvertently tripped an old spell while hiding in the ruins. The spell was responsible for transforming her and muddling her memory. It was a simpler version, somewhat truthful, and had the further advantage of discouraging visits to the ruins. People cheered and the upheaval showed no signs of abating until the Ealdorman, a stately older man, stepped forward and addressed everyone.

"Tonight our own Aniella has been returned to us safely…Who could imagine she was here all along, right under our noses!" He directed an appreciative nod to Geralt and Yennefer. "It is all thanks to the witcher and the enchantress."

More applause erupted.

"I believe this warrants a cause for great celebration!" he decreed.

"Yes! A great celebration! A feast!" people seconded him.

As the people grew more excited, they began making offers and suggestions:

"And let there be dancing! My boys and I will play music!"

"And we'll roast meat! We can have some seasoned and ready for tomorrow!"

"Don't forget the ale! I pledge a barrel of Dorian stout from my cellar!"

"But…what about the desserts? Who will make the desserts?" a child asked woefully.

An expectant hush fell over the crowd.

"Who else? _We_ will make the desserts!" Magdala announced gladly.

"Of course we will!" Aniella confirmed.

"My oven is yours if you need it!" a woman volunteered.

"Aye! My oven is, too!" another eagerly added. Several others echoed the offer.

Cheers resounded from every corner of the village as the two young women exchanged complicit grins.

"Come, Aniella. We have a lot of work to do!" Magdala ushered her protectively towards her hut.

"I can't wait!" Aniella announced happily, limping mildly towards the little cottage in her oversized poppy skirt.

* * *

There were few opportunities for witchers to let down their guard among common folk, for witchers were often unwelcome or regarded warily even among those they had helped. Opportunities for a moment of détente were even scantier if the witcher was accompanied by another witcher…or an enchantress.

But in the tiny village of Rhuddilain in the south of Temeria, by the banks of the Ribbon, a late fall chill lingered in the night air as the musicians played a lively, spirited jig that made simply standing still observing from a corner impossible. So, when Geralt's hand slipped around Yen's waist and he pulled her towards the spinning and twirling dancers on the square, folks merely made way for them to pass through. He was pleasantly surprised by Yen's reaction, as well; he hadn't imagined she would play along with his impulse as gamely as she had.

"Well, well! This I did not expect!" he complimented her in an amused tone as they turned rapidly in time to the music. "A courtly bassadance I can see you doing, but an old-fashioned contradance? I'm impressed!"

"I can understand that you would associate a refined bassadance with me. But a contradance— and the lads one would learn such dances from—were always more…entertaining!" She raised an eyebrow flirtatiously.

He offered her something rare: his smile.

* * *

Much later he and Yen walked past children playing a spirited game of hide-and-seek and smaller groups of villagers engaged in conversation in front of their houses. The festivities had begun winding down and a sleepy contentment was settling over the village. Bellies had been filled with good Temerian ale, spiced roasted meat, and the most heavenly assortment of desserts. They had departed Magdala's cottage earlier, waving farewells to the two young women.

"Thank you!" Aniella and Magdala had called out gratefully as they left. "Come see us again next time you travel this way!"

"Like in a fairytale," Yen sighed as they strolled towards the inn.

"Do you think they'll be all right?" Geralt wondered.

"Did you notice what the villagers placed on Aniella and Magdala's heads at the beginning of the festivities?" Yen disguised a yawn. "They placed flower garlands on each of their heads."

"I don't see—"

"Golden rod, heather, chrysanthemums, and pansies—all fall flowers symbolizing love, prosperity, good fortune…" She took his arm as they walked. "Such things are only bestowed upon a couple on the occasion of their betrothal."

"I think these people are more interested in wedding cake…" he confided. She laughed.

"Then they are certainly going about it the right way. Aniella is going to use the gold she took from her father to open a proper bakery with Magdala."

"Lucky villagers…"

"They will be fine." Yen cast a parting glance over her shoulder. "How often does that happen, Geralt?" she asked pensively. "It's so rare."

Geralt had to agree. Anything involving curses had a tendency to end badly…Even when broken, curses always left damage and grief in their wake. But that particular incident? It had probably made a village a bit plumper and deprived a bog of a false water hag.

"So much could have gone wrong. It's a small miracle that it didn't."

Yen rested her head on his shoulder and he blinked slowly, surprised at the open display of affection.

"That's not what I meant," she told him. "But yes, you are right."

"What _did_ you mean?" he asked, his curiosity piqued. He was enjoying her proximity and slipped his arm around her shoulders.

" I meant that Magdala and Aniella love each other so…unconditionally. How often have you seen that, Geralt? When Magdala looked at the water hag, she did not see a monster: she only saw her love."

They continued up the path in silence. The inn's lights glowed softly ahead.

"Geralt?" She halted at the inn's small garden. A garland of little gourds decorated the doorway.

He peered at her, finding a serious expression on her face.

"Do you think…What if... If I were different than I am—physically, at least—Or if my appearance were to change…Do you think you would you still..."

He tenderly placed his finger against her full lips. In the lantern's soft glow he could contemplate her beautiful features…and a flicker of apprehension in her eyes that made his heart ache.

He knew well that behind every alluring sorceress and enchantress was at some point an awkward girl: a little girl who had been mocked, taken advantage of, and seen as either a threat or a pawn. The girls who sought out the succor of magic were not necessarily the beautiful, popular ones, for those rarely sought out the lure of spells when they already wielded a different sort of power. No—it was usually the girls who had been taunted for the superficial way they were perceived that gravitated towards the consolation of developing magical abilities, of seizing control over their fates. They were the intelligent, interesting, and resourceful girls who became sorceresses who could then cast spells that righted all those wrongs that had caused them so much pain. It was universal: once in charge of their powers, sorceresses did away with what they thought were unattractive traits: physical imperfections, limitations, or other such perceived shortcomings. In Yen's case, he had seen through the thick layers of magic early on and caught a glimpse of what physical imperfection she strove to conceal from the world—an imperfection that had undoubtedly caused her both physical and emotional pain. Yennefer had reinvented herself in a mighty interpretation of everything she aspired to be. She was mercilessly beautiful, turning heads everywhere they went. But there was…more. Her sharp wit, her charm, her intelligence and strong character—no magic had been able to forge that. That was all uniquely Yen. He had walked the earth for a long time, seen the best and the worst life had to offer, sometimes sampling from both sweet and bitter wells himself. He had met humans who were more ruthless than beasts, and creatures that acted more nobly than humans. He had seen petty cruelty and witnessed sublime sacrifices. He knew well that even the most formidable view grew dull if a pretty façade was all it could offer. He knew Yen was much more than her altered surface.

How could he tell her right then that he already knew her secret?

And that he loved her all the same?

"Hm. I am going to recite something said by one well versed in these matters," he began.

She pressed her lips tightly.

"Please. It's been such a perfect evening: spare me from Dandelion's poetry…"

He turned to face her, drawing her tightly against him, circling her waist, and seeking out her eyes.

"No, no. It is just this: 'Be whatever you wish—but please don't leave me again: I love you with all my heart'," he stated in a low voice, for her ears alone.

Yen said nothing to that—no sassy retort, no cutting remark. Instead, her eyes glistened and she smiled.

"Yes," she whispered, touched by his words, wrapping her arms around him as well. "I believe the only reply to that is, 'Take me home. Our home. I never want us to part again.'"

They remained that way for a longer while, lost in the sweetness of the moment, holding each other close in the pleasant evening as the dulcet tones of a lute faded in the distance and the vast starry sky shimmered above approvingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt alludes to Yen's secret in the novel The Last Wish, when he first met her. I won't tell you what it is, if you haven't read it. ;-)
> 
> And thus concludes my fluffy tale. Thank you so much for reading and commenting. I'm a little sad it is over because it was such a blast.
> 
> Wishing you all much sweetness--especially the talented and awesome Fen Assan, for whom this fic is for! <3


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